


This Is Not The Ivy League

by akire_yta



Category: Bandom
Genre: College!AU, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-06-01
Updated: 2013-09-27
Packaged: 2017-12-27 18:17:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 32,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/982094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/akire_yta/pseuds/akire_yta
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a tiny faculty on the other side of the world, new hire and freshly minted PhD Ryan Ross finds a staff full of expats. Over the course of a year, this staff do their jobs - teaching recalcitrant students, managing research, sleeping through meetings - whilst also trying to have that strange mythical thing called a real life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Notes: This BBB is also a response to the “Take Your Fandom To Work” challenge. I came to teach at several Australian universities and colleges, and the experiences below are an amalgamation of them all. Every story here came from reliable sources during my tenure (no pun intended!) However, the university and academic faculty presented here is not intended to be representative of any single particular campus or faculty. No actual campus people were harmed in the making of this fanfic. (http://chronicle.com/jobs/news/2009/01/2009013001c.htm)  
> As for the bandom folk? Don’t google yourself. 
> 
> Kudos: thepouncer for the beta (all remaining mistakes are all my own), cedara for the language assist, and xsnarkasaurus for handholding and the pun-iest title ever!

__  
DATE: Monday, Dec 28  
TO: thisisryanross@gmail.com  
FROM: Brian Schechter  
SUBJECT: Arrival Information 

_Dear Dr Ross  
Please find attached your final e-ticket and reservation numbers for all departures and transfers. A reservation for your hotel stay has been made from the period 12-20th of January. A taxi and shuttle service runs from the airport to the city – the contact number and address are on the reservation invoice attached_

_I will give you a call at that number on the evening of the 12th to arrange further details for the start of your position. Professor Wentz will want to see you before the 20th, but we can confirm details of that appointment upon your arrival._

_Once again, welcome to the University. We look forward to your arrival._

_Brian Schechter  
Administrator _

 

There had been no warning, no lead in, no time to prepare or reflect. Somehow, he had gone from grad student to job interview to saying yes. Then there was nothing but the flurry of writing, packing, severing all ties.

It wasn’t until he was on the plane, accelerating down the runway, did it hit him.

“What the fuck have I done?”

“Excuse me, dear?” Ryan blinked, unaware he had spoken out loud. The old woman in the seat stared at him through heavy spectacles, her eyes strangely bulbous under glass.

“I just finished my doctorate, packed my life up into a dozen boxes, and am flying halfway around the world to live in another country I have never been to before for at least three years to work my ass off,” he rattled off, unable to stop himself as the enormity of it all hit him in the face.

She patted his arm distractedly. “Ahh, an adventure. It will be good for you.” She had then tugged up her blanket and fallen asleep.

He tried to nap, but could only toss and turn. It had been a year since Spencer had just upped and _gone_ , and they had swapped emails of course, every day, and Ryan was saving for a visit of course, but then Spencer had forwarded the link to the job advertisement under the subject heading: _They’re desperate._

A telephone interview and an immediate offer. That was beyond desperate. But he was broke and about to graduate. He couldn’t say no to work, even if it was on the other side of the planet.

And now here he was, seat back upright and tray table stowed, waiting to come in for a landing on the final leg of his journey. The tiny plane they had poured him onto at the last airport shuddered as it dropped through the clouds and skimmed down a long sloping hill. The landing gears clunked as they dropped into position and touched down.

Where the hell was the town? Where were they?

Ryan stumbled up the airbridge in a daze, fourteen hours of solid travelling making his feet drag like lead.

“Ryan!”

He turned and slammed headfirst into Spencer’s chest, arms wrapping around each other automatically. Spencer squeezed him so tight that Ryan wouldn’t have had enough breath to complain even if he wanted to.

“Welcome home.”

Ryan breathed out.

~//~

Bob grinned at Brian as he punched the button for their floor. “Best thing about summer, man – no waiting in lines for the fucking elevator.”

“Express all the way,” Brian agreed with a sarcastic roll of his eyes as he fanned himself with the mail. It wasn’t even 9am and he already felt like he was being broiled by the summer heat. “Saves you, what, four seconds?”

“It’s the principle of the thing,” Bob shot back easily. “Come on, fill me in on the latest.”

Brian shrugged as the belled dinged and disgorged them onto the cracked tiles of the lobby. “Same shit as always. Greta, Victoria and Gee are going crazy over their symposium, Pete pretty much took the summer off, so Patrick’s been forging his signature again, I’ve barely seen Joe. Oh,” Bob turned as Brian paused outside his door. “Were you here when the new guy arrived?”

“New guy? You mean we finally got the fucking replacement in?” Bob gave Brian a quick thumbs up. “Awesome. How is he?”

Brian laughed as he fished out his key. “Quietly freaking out, mainly.”

“Weren’t we all?”

“Yeah, but you hid it better,” Brian retorted as he shouldered his door open. He remembered what Bob had been like, his first months here, and turned away to hide his smile. “But it turns out he knows Spencer, so, y’know,” he said instead.

“Cool,” Bob agreed easily, shifting his bag on his shoulder. “When do I get to meet him?”

“I’ll drag him by as soon as he shows up. Though watch out.”

Bob frowned. “Why?”

Brian backed in through his open door, keeping a straight face as he looked Bob in the eye. “He makes me feel _old_.”

Bob understood what Brian meant half an hour later as he wandered into the staff room in search of caffeine. “Oh hey, Bob, this is Ryan Ross,” Brian said, propelling someone who, to Bob, looked like a refugee from _Oliver_ towards him. “Ryan, Bob Bryar, one of our associate professors here.” Bob schooled his face and gave a friendly nod. Even without Brian’s warning. Bob could see that Ryan was kind of overwhelmed by it all.

From over by the window, Greta laughed lightly as Bob shook Ryan’s hand. “That doesn’t mean you have to stand on ceremony for our dear Professor Bryar, though.” She smiled gently at Ryan’s look of confusion, and patted the seat neat to her in invitation. “I know, I know, it took me forever when I first moved here from the States, everything seemed inverted. Brendon and Patrick had to resort to charts to help me get it.” She put down her cup and glanced around the room. “I wish I had a piece of paper. Diagrams help. Oh well.” She shrugged and tossed back her hair. “Just try to visualise it, okay? A tutor here is a TA back home. A lecturer here is really an assistant professor.”

“But they’re referred to as Dr whoever,” Bob interjected helpfully.

Greta nodded. “Yep. Like me.” She tapped her chest lightly. “And an associate professor and up here are like our tenured full professors and up. Got it?”

Ryan frowned. “I think so,” he said slowly, slurring the words slightly as he tried to rearrange the labels in his mind. “What about non-tenured professors?”

“Don’t exist,” Greta replied promptly. “I’ve looked under rocks and everything. Closest thing is a teaching fellow, but we don’t have any of those. But the key thing to remember is,” she winked impishly. “Bob may be third only to Patrick and Pete, but he doesn’t demand you stand on ceremony for him.”

Bob rolled his eyes. “Tell the truth, my darling Dr Salpeter, you just ignore ceremony. There’s a difference.” He lifted the coffee pot and refreshed Greta’s cup at her nod. Ryan just clutched his mug to his chest. Bob resisted the urge to laugh, and took pity on the kid instead. “Now,” he said instead as he took the seat opposite her. “To business. Do you two want to hear all about Professor Bryar Goes To Chicago, or do you just want to jump straight to giving me the juicy gossip?”

~//~

“Did you get thrown out of the staff club again?”

Ryan glared at Spencer and threw himself into the uncomfortable guest chair. “I swear they fucking do it just to piss me off.” He tipped his head back and stared at the cracked ceiling tiles, trying and failing to get a rein on his petulant frustrations. “Fucking power mad freaks.”

He could hear Spencer trying not to snigger. “Just take your staff card and everything will be fine,” Spencer said soothingly.

Ryan snatched a pencil out of the little jar on Spencer’s cluttered desk and waved it at Spencer. “I was never carded going clubbing, why the fuck should I be carded getting a coffee?” Spencer turned away, hands dancing across the low shelf above his desk. “Spence, I can see your shoulders shaking. Just laugh and get it out of your system.”

Spencer plucked a folder from the shelf and turned back to face Ryan with a huge grin. “Oh come on, like if our places were reversed you wouldn’t be having hysterics?”

“No,” Ryan said, tugging on his cuffs indignantly. “I’d be buying my oldest friend a coffee.”

Spencer sighed and scribbled something onto the topmost sheet on a block of lurid purple post-it notes. “Poor baby need someone to hold his hand as he orders?” He laughed and ducked the thrown pencil. “Come on, I need sugar anyway, and you need to tell me how week one has gone. I’ll brave the forces of darkness for that.”

“I’d like to point out,” Ryan said as he followed Spencer out of his cube. “That none of this was in the job description.”

Spencer smiled. “The best perks never are.”

~//~

Greta sighed as she flipped through the papers one last time, trying to make sense of the flow of argument, the pieces missing and the tasks already done. For the tenth time since she started reading, she mentally cursed that stupid woman for getting fired and whoever hired her in the first place. Then, as always, she felt guilty. It was tough on them all, but to be the grad students she had just offloaded and left behind must have been torture.

Greta took a deep breath and flipped back to the enrolment pages, going over details. Patrick’s little note was still pinned to the top corner: “Please, Greta. If you can’t supervise, he may need to drop the whole program. – PS.”

She tore the note off and tossed it into her top drawer. “No pressure, Patrick,” she grumbled to herself as she skimmed over the enrolment forms. His name was Bob Morris, and he had come into the PhD programs straight from honours two years ago, the year Greta herself had arrived. She vaguely remembered his name being bandied around the department during those first few hectic months, one of half a dozen new kids looking for supervision and their own place in the hierarchy. She hadn’t paid him much attention then. He hadn’t been her problem, then.

She turned the sheet and looked over his grades, pursing her lips at the slight slip the higher he had gone with coursework, most probably as his natural talent increasingly failed to allow him to cope with the rigours of the advanced courses. Natural talent was good, but he also had to work for it, had to want it. She tapped her pen thoughtfully against the desk, considering her approach.

A quick two-knock rap at her door made her look up. “Come in,” she called as she smoothly slipped the paperwork back into its innocuous brown folder. She rose to her feet as he came in and closed the door behind him.

“Dr Salpeter, I’m Bob Morris. Professor Stump sent me. Thanks for seeing me on such short notice.”

She shook his hand and gestured for him to take a seat. “It’s Greta, and the pleasure is all mine. Now,” she said with a smile, watching the way he was discreetly trying to read what was pinned to her bulletin board. “Tell me your central thesis in thirty seconds or less.”

Bob blinked and laughed uneasily. “What?”

“Central thesis. Core argument. Question you are trying to answer. Go.” She folded her hands on the desk and waited.

Bob almost squirmed on the spot. “We were working on something to do with video games,” he began.

Greta shook her head. “That’s a vague topic area, not a thesis,” she said calmly. “Try again.”

Bob just stared at her. “I don’t know if…” he trailed off weakly.

Greta smiled sweetly. “I know you don’t,” she tried to be gentle with her honesty. “I’ve read your proposal, and it’s full of lovely buzz words, and it obviously entertained the scholarships committee. But there is no question. And what a thesis does is explore and hopefully answer a question.” She sat back and laced her fingers together. “Patrick – Professor Stump has asked me to be your supervisor. I know you’ve been working solo since,” she bobbed her head as she swallowed the bitter comment on the tip of her tongue. “Since your last supervisor left us. That means we’ve got some work to do to catch up. So since you can’t give me a question, maybe you can give me an answer. Do you want this?” She tapped the folder with his records. “Do you want to finish a PhD?”

Bob didn’t blink, didn’t hesitate. “Yes.”

Greta beamed at him. “That,” she said confidently. “I can work with.”

Slowly, Bob smiled back. Greta felt the mood in the room shift as Bob stifled another awkward little laugh. “But seriously – a thesis question in thirty seconds or less?”

Greta reached over and found a pad of paper and a pen. “Get used to it. I’m going to ask you to do that every time I see you until you can give me one. Now,” she wrote ‘video games’ in the centre of the pad and pushed it over to him. “Let’s talk gaming.”

~//~

“Moving countries,” Ryan declared dramatically as the line inched forward. “Is a pain in the ass.”

Spencer nudged him with his shoulder. “Quit whining. I had to live out of that crappy hotel room for a week, and take the first shitty apartment I could find. You got to land on your feet in Chez Smith. Appreciate the fucking luxury.”

Ryan fixed the back of Spencer’s head with a mild glare of affront as they shuffled forward again. “One suitcase,” he continued his lament as if Spencer had never interrupted. “I could only bring one suitcase with me. I am sick of wearing the same clothes over and over. I’ve never done so much laundry in my life.”

“Suck it up, Ross,” Spencer said mildly. “Your stuff will be here soon enough.”

Ryan poked his tongue out at him. “And I thought they spoke English here. But everything has a different name. Power strips are extension boards, and TAs are tutors, and I feel like I need a fucking translator every time I ask for something.”

Spencer laughed as he stepped up to the counter. “Be grateful you didn’t fall into the whole ‘thongs’ trap.” Ryan opened his mouth to retort, but it froze on his tongue as Spencer broke into a huge grin at the man behind the machine. “Hey you.”

The man behind the counter waved lazily. “Ahh, my favourite book bitch.” Ryan prepared himself to stop Spencer from leaping over the counter and ripping this guy’s throat out. But Spencer just kept grinning stupidly. “How’s life in the glass tower?”

“Boring,” Spencer replied with a happy smile. Ryan’s eyes widened at Spencer’s flirty tone. “We need caffeine, stat.”

Coffee-guy’s eyes flicked over Spencer’s shoulder. “We? Don’t tell me this is Ryan? Hey man.” He leaned over and held out his hand, smiling broadly. “I’m Jon, great to finally meet you. All the stories are true.” Ryan shook hands on automatic.

“Likewise.” Ryan turned to glare at Spencer.

Spencer shrugged awkwardly. “Two of the usual, please.”

“Coming right up.” As he disappeared behind the massive outdated coffee engine, Ryan dragged Spencer around the corner to the seating area and pushed him into a chair.

“Talk,” he demanded, standing over him.

Spencer blushed, and Ryan knew it was serious.

~//~

Ryan stumbled back into the Department, head reeling. Spencer had never mentioned a Jon in his emails.

Things had definitely changed. He wasn’t quite sure how he felt about that, but hurt was pushing forward as the dominant emotion. He tried to ignore the sense of betrayal that came with it.

“Hey, umm, Ryan!”

Ryan turned, grateful for the distraction, to see Victoria Asher leaning out of the door to the staff common room. “Get over here, we have cake!”

Ryan drifted over as Victoria vanished into the crowd that had gathered. As he edged cautiously around the main crowd, Greta appeared at his elbow bearing a paper plate. “Vegan cake,” she declared with a flourish of her free hand, as if that was an attraction.

Ryan took it gingerly. “Thanks,” he said flatly. “What’s the occasion?”

Joe Trohman appeared on Greta’s other side. “Bryar’s pushed another one out,”

Ryan heard a snort of laughter from behind him, and turned towards Bob, who was leaning against the back wall. “You make it sound like I gave birth to them, Trohman.”

Joe laughed and waved his fork through the air. “But in a way, you did man. You _nurtured_ them through their intellectual development in the bosom of your knowledge until _pop_ \--” he jabbed at the air. “Out they come, fully-formed and mewling critiques of Marxist theory!”

Ryan leaned back as Bob took a half-hearted swipe at Joe. “Says the man who perpetuates the lies of the dominant class.”

Greta tugged on Ryan’s arm and pulled him back out towards the main crowd. “Once they get onto the bourgeoisie there’s no stopping them. Trust me, when they start talking class, just leave. It’ll save your sanity. Hey, are you going to eat that?”

Ryan wordlessly handed over the paper plate.

“Thanks.” She took it, and nudged Ryan with her elbow in thanks. “How’s week one been?”

Ryan looked over the mass of people, most of who were still just faces in the hall to him. “Confusing,” he admitted after a long pause.

Greta stuck the plastic fork in her mouth and patted his shoulder. “Don’t worry,” she mumbled around the utensil. “It all becomes clear by about year three.” Greta tugged out the fork and stuck it in the remains of her cake, missing Ryan’s stunned look. “Oh hey, here’s the conquering hero!”

A cheer went up as a trim kid with curly red hair appeared in the doorway. He looked away, obviously embarrassed by the attention, as the room cheered and surged forward to swallow him into their midst.

Ryan watched them pat him on the back, catcalling and calling him “Dr Andy.” He felt someone move behind them, and looked over Greta to see Bob Bryar looming. “Congrats?” he offered awkwardly.

“Thanks,” Bob mumbled. “But he did all the work.”

Greta nudged him with her elbow. “Bullshit, Bryar. Fastest successful completion on record, and that abstract was dense.” She smiled wickedly. “I also heard a little birdy say that our new Dr Hurley started deconstructing the external examiner’s favourite Marxist theories halfway through his defence.”

Bob scooped Greta sideways into a one-armed hug. “Did your little birdy tell you how awesome it was to watch?”

Greta giggled and hugged Bob back. “I took that as a given. But hey, now you’ve finished up with Andy, I have a new student who could benefit from your wisdom.”

Ryan slipped away as they became engrossed in their conversation. He pushed his way to the door, and walked slowly back up the corridor to his tiny office. He waited until he had closed the door behind him before he rubbed his face, pushing away the prickly hot feeling. Ryan flopped into his office chair and tried to concentrate on his email as a way of ignoring the feeling of being horribly lost and alone.

~//~

Bob worked methodically, clearing through the email, writing up a task list on his whiteboard, doing the chores that would let him do his job. It was kind of a meditation for him. Drifting down the corridor, he could hear Zack’s rumbling voice, Greta’s sudden bright laugh, and the distant hum of the maintenance crews that tended to emerge like ants over the summer. But other than that, all was quiet.

Bob smiled as the next email message came up.

_Hey Bob  
Great to see you. Your pitiful pleas of homesickness touched our collective and calloused departmental heart. A new position has opened up, and We Want You (to apply, dumbass). The criteria and where to send your (ridiculous) resume are attached. (No, seriously. It’s ridiculous. I know it’s publish or perish, but dude, your p-list is just stupid)._

_Don’t make me come down there to get you, Bryar.  
Quinn_

Bob sat back. Visiting Quinn’s college was like visiting a life he never thought he’d get. But now?

Bob shook his head. There were a dozen equally qualified potential candidates that he could name off the top of his head. It was an employers market in the States, that’s why he’d left in the first place. Why go through the cost of moving him back when they could get a local?

But if he didn’t send in anything, then Quinn would be on his case ten times a day. Ignoring the tiny pang of homesickness that struck every time he thought of Chicago, he quickly pulled up the latest version of his CV and dashed out a few quick responses to the criteria. The cover letter took just ten minutes. Without stopping to let himself over-think things, Bob fired the whole package off to the HR department, then tapped out another quick email.

_Quinn_  
App sent, but I don’t think I’ll even make the shortlist. (And dude, it’s called a research day. Look it up)  
-BB 

~//~

Zack leaned against the doorframe. “You okay, kid?”

Ryan normally hated being called kid, but Zack was not only the first person he had met, but also a good two feet taller than him. If anyone in this place got a free pass on stupid nicknames, it was Zack.

Besides, that was the first lesson he had learnt at grad school. Thou Shalt Not Piss Off The Admins. Even if the particular admin in question looked like he should have been bouncing drunks from bars. “Fine, thanks,” he replied, almost succeeding in keeping the exhaustion out of his voice. “Just got a lot to sort through.”

Zack nodded and pushed off, rapping his knuckles against the frame. “Don’t let them work you too hard. See you tomorrow.”

Ryan blinked and glanced at the clock in the corner of his computer screen. 5:40pm. “Fuck,” he cursed, scrabbling for books and papers. “Spence’s gonna kill me.”

Zack grinned. “Library-Spencer? Yeah, you guys are old friends, right?”

Ryan nodded vaguely as he glanced over his desk, checking to see if there was anything else he’d need tonight. “Grew up together,” he mumbled for what felt like the thousandth time.

Zack walked over to his desk and picked something up. “Don’t forget these.”

Ryan fought the urge to blush as he took the keys dangling from Zack’s fingers. “Thanks.”

“Come on,” Zack said gently with a little tilt of his head. “I’m heading that way myself.”

As Zack did one last pass down the corridor, turning off lights and checking the public doors were locked, Ryan looked around a moment for his coat, before remembering he hadn’t worn one today. Summer in January, winter in June. Even the seasons were going to take some getting used to.

“Let’s rock and roll.” Zack headed down the fire stairs and Ryan followed, trying not to let the weight of his bag send him stumbling headfirst down the steps to a broken neck. Outside, the air was clear, the heat of the day slowly dissipating into twilight. Ryan could hear gulls crowing in the distance, over the sound of the campus slowly vacating for the night.

“So how’s life on the far side of the planet treating you?”

Ryan studied the cracked pavement beneath their feet as they walked. “Oddly. I keep forgetting where I am, for one. All the accents.”

Zack laughed loudly. “I know, it’s pathetic that we don’t have one native on staff. You’d think equal opportunity would be on that one.”

“How’d you end up down here?” Ryan asked, grateful for the chance to divert the attention off himself. It seemed all anyone wanted to know was how he was adjusting. The honest answer was he wasn’t, but that probably wasn’t what his new employers wanted to hear.

Zack’s smile was bittersweet. “Followed the love of my life. Pity she didn’t see it that way.”

Ryan winced. “Ouch.”

“Yeah, but I like my job and I get to live on a beach and go surfing every day, so it all ended on the upside. Hey, there’s Spencer!” Zack raised his hand in greeting.

Spencer was almost bouncing on the spot, lit up with a happy smile that Ryan had missed like an ache. “Hey!” he called as he walked over to meet them halfway.

“This is where I go home and catch a few evening waves. Catchya tomorrow.” With a little salute, Zack headed off down the path and disappeared around the corner.

“Listen,” Spencer began before Ryan could speak. “Tom is mixing tonight at the Commons. If we go straight there, we can get in before the masses.”

Ryan felt the pull of his satchel dragging at his shoulder. “I’ve got ten tons of shit to get done tonight, Spence,” he groaned.

“And it will still be there tomorrow,” Spencer soothed. “Come on, Jon promised me he’d make Tom mix us something with enough vodka to invade Russia if we got there early enough.”

Ryan frowned. “Tom? Jon? The guy from the coffee thing?”

Spencer nodded, bouncing back on his heels. “That’s Jon. Tom’s his best friend. They said that I – we – should….”

Ryan cut Spencer off with a wave. “Why haven’t I heard of these guys before?”

Spencer frowned. “What?”

“I’ve never heard you mention them before, and now I’m supposed to, to,” he trailed off, suddenly, inexplicably, angry.

Spencer was staring, reading the shift in his emotions along the lines of his body. “Fuck you,” he breathed quietly. “You know why I moved, why I came here, what it cost. Was I just supposed to sit at home pining? Stay up til 3am just so we could Skype? Excuse me for getting a life that didn’t revolve around you.”

Ryan felt the weight of every one of the thousand miles between here and home slam into him all at once. He turned and walked away.

“Shit,” he heard Spencer mutter, the rustle of his clothes as he jogged to catch up. “Wait up, Ryan. Ryan, wait!” Ryan kept walking. “Ry, come on, don’t pull this crap.” Ryan kept walking, and Spencer’s voice fell behind him. “Do you even know which bus to catch?”

Ryan could figure it out by himself.

~//~

Ryan fumbled his key into the lock and inched the door open. The lights were on in the kitchen, but Ryan made a beeline for straight for the guest room, head down. He slung his satchel onto the bed before following it, face-first, onto the pillows.

Barely a minute later, there was a feather-light _tap-tap-tap_ on the door. “Go away,” he mumbled into the bedding

Instead, he heard the door open, the soft sound of footsteps on the carpet, then the bed dipped under Spencer’s weight. Ryan turned his head but didn’t move away as Spencer crawled across the covers and spooned up behind him. “I thought you’d still be at the bar with your friends,” he muttered into the pillow.

Spencer began to pet his arm, soothingly repetitive. “I was, but I left. You see, I had told all my friends that my awesome bestest friend in the universe was going to be there too. And then when I showed up empty-handed, well, no-one could bear the disappointment.” He nuzzled against the back of Ryan’s head. “Least of all me.”

Ryan rubbed his cheek against the rough weave of the pillowcase, unwilling to let go of his anger just yet. “You’ve changed, Spencer. You’re different here.”

He felt the puff of air, knew that Spencer was smiling. “Of course I have. But I’m still your Spencer.”

Ryan turned in Spencer’s loose embrace until they were lying nose to nose. “I keep wanting to click my heels and go ‘there’s no place like home,’” he whispered.

Spencer laughed, low and warm. “I remember that feeling.”

“When did it stop?”

Spencer leaned in and rubbed the tip of their noses together. “About a week ago at the airport, actually.”

Ryan closed his eyes. “Sorry I was such a dick.”

“Make it up to me by being nice to Jon the next time you see him. He’s a good guy, I think you’d like him if you just put that damn chip on your shoulder down and said hi.”

Ryan eyes snapped open and he grinned wickedly. “You like him.”

Spencer shrugged. “He’s cool.” But even in the low light, this close Ryan could see the faint blush spreading over Spencer’s cheeks.

He grinned delightedly. “No, you _like_ him.”

Spencer hit him lightly on the shoulder. “What are you, a twelve year old girl?”

“Spencer and Jon, sitting in a tree.”

Spencer rolled off the bed, laughing. “Shut up. Come on, its nearly time for the local version of ‘So You Think You Can Dance?’ We’ll make popcorn and mock the accents.” Grabbing his hand, Spencer dragged Ryan off the bed.

~//~  
 __  
DATE: Monday, Feb 2  
TO: conf_announce  
FROM: Frank Iero  
SUBJECT: Final Booklet Abstracts and Registration

_Hi all  
Just a friendly reminder that we need to have your finalized abstracts for the conference booklet by THIS WEDNESDAY. Beyond that, we cannot make changes. Also, we still have a number of people who are presenting but who have yet to register. Please be aware you cannot register on the day, and you cannot present if you haven’t registered. The registration form is  here on the conference website._

_Thanks to those who have already done both, it’s appreciated. See you all at what looks to be a fantastic conference._

_Frank Iero  
On behalf of the conference committee_

Gerard put down the phone and very carefully and methodically began to beat his head against the desk.

“Hey, here,” something thick and marginally softer than his desk was slid under his forehead mid-beat. Gerard slumped down over it, arms over his head.

“Frankie, Frankie, it’s too early for this shit. Make the world go away.” He heard the door slam. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. When you’re done bemoaning the world and your place in it, can you sign your pillow?”

Gerard dropped his arms and blinked, trying to make out the words at the end of his nose.

“It’s the final forms for hiring the auditorium for the conference, plus the lecture theatres for the keynotes. I should have the billing forms from catering in the next day or so.”

Gerard sighed, but pushed himself off the desk before he started drooling on the paperwork. “Can’t you forge my signature on these?”

Frank dropped into the office chair opposite, still rifling through a folder of papers. “Patrick said I had to stop doing that, the guys in the tower were getting suspicious.”

“He can talk,” Gerard muttered with a snort as he reached for his pen. “What else?” he asked as he signed his name with a flourish.

“We’ve still got 34 delegates who have registered but haven’t paid, the printery said they need the programme by next Friday at the latest if we want to have them in time to do the conference packs, I don’t have enough volunteers to man desks or people to chair sessions, and, oh yeah, our keynote speaker has pulled out.”

Gerard kept nodding along on autopilot for a few seconds more, then gasped as he leapt from his chair. “What?”

Frank rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Yeah, apparently his wife fell off her fucking horse or something, and is now in traction. He can’t leave her to fly halfway around the world.” He reached inside a folder and pulled out a printout. “He’s the announcement I’ve typed up. Check the wording, we need to send it ASAP.”

Gerard snatched it up and read quickly. “What’s this gap here? Is it for the replacement?” He waved the release with a flourish. “We don’t _have_ a replacement keynote speaker, Frankie.”

“Well,” Frank said, standing up. “That’s something for the conference committee to sort out.” He slipped past Gerard and opened the door. “Zack, did you find them? They are? Awesome, thanks man.” He leaned back. “Greta and Victoria are waiting in the meeting room. Come on man, time to put out some fires.”

Gerard grabbed his stuff off the table. “Think they’d let us meet outside so we can smoke?”

Frank ushered him out the door. “You and Victoria hold two-thirds of the vote.”

Gerard laughed. “Against Greta.”

Frank smiled wryly as they rounded the corner and approached the meeting room. “Once she hears the news, she might take pity on you two.”

“News?” Victoria asked from her position lounging at the head of the table. She looked at Gerard’s expression and sat upright. “Bad news?”

“You could say that,” Gerard began as Frank closed the door behind them.

~//~

Brian leaned back from his desk far enough to catch Zack’s eye. He nodded meaningfully. Zack nodded back and rose, resisting the urge to hum the Mission: Impossible theme as he pulled the “back by 10.30” sign out of the little pile under the counter. The security screen rattled down and locked shut with a snip. Ten seconds later, he rounded the corner into the staff room.

Brian was already there, futzing with the coffee machine. “Sup,” Zack said.

“Twenty minutes of blissful peace,” Brian shot back as he jammed the jug under the spigot. Zack sprawled into the armchair under the window as the smell of brewing coffee filled the room.

“Enjoy it while it lasts. I think the catastrophe triplets will be in here as soon as they smell that.”

Like his words were an invocation, Gerard stumbled through the door, Victoria hot on his heels, with Greta bringing up the rear. “Coffee?” Gerard mewled.

“You’re pathetic,” Zack teased with an easy laugh.

Greta came and curled up on the chair next to his, slipping her shoes off so she could tuck her toes under the arm of the chair. “How about I come sort course packs this afternoon and you can chase up a new speaker?”

“No deal.”

She pouted at him. “You’re no fun.”

Brian handed Gerard a mug, and received a pathetically grateful smile in response. “And just think, semester starts in three weeks.” He grinned at their chorus of moans. “And we have to do a course advising session in two,” he continued as the moaning got louder. “I’ll be circulating the schedule for the graduation advising slots this afternoon, and I don’t want a repeat of last year, Victoria.”

“Why?” Greta asked, sitting up. “What did you do?”

Zack grinned. “Played the trade game until she had traded off all but one of her slots.”

“And then,” Brian added. “She called in sick on that day.”

Victoria pouted at them. “Like they ever take your advice anyway. They just want a signature. Wham, bam, thank you ma’am.”

Gerard sighed dramatically. “Story of my life.”

~//~

“Hey Ray, got a sec?”

Ray hit save on his document and spun his chair around, waving Zack into his office. “Sure, what’s up?”

Zack tossed him a slim printed booklet. “Finally finished the layout on the major subject booklet. For the record, those tables were a bitch.”

Ray smiled apologetically. “Bitch to print, bitch to compile, but if we leave it out the students bitch all semester.”

Zack laughed. “This is what you get for volunteering to chair the information committee, you fool. Anyway, check that over for typos, but I think we got them all. The other question is the cover.”

Ray groaned and ran his hands through his hair. “Shit, back to that again? We’ve been having the same fucking debate since October!” He held up the booklet and pointed at the print date to emphasis his point.

Zack threw up his hands in mock surrender. “Hey, you try finding one usable image that covers everything we do here. At this point I’m open to any suggestions that aren’t full on pornography.”

“That’d be attention-getting, at least.” Ray rolled his eyes as Zack grinned. “But,” Ray said slowly after a long pause. “I do have some images saved from the last time we hunted. And there’s one I really like.” He turned back to his computer and began clicking buttons. “But I don’t know if it will fly with copyright and all that.”

Zack leaned over his shoulder, grinning as he studied the image. “Luke Skywalker. Classic of the genre.”

Ray nodded. “Jedi leader and all round hero. Who better to be our posterboy for this year. But-” he made a face. “Lucasfilm has more lawyers than the law school. Is this fair use?”

Zack bit his lip a moment. “Email it to me, I’ll check it out.”

“Dude,” Ray laughed as he called up his email. “You get that on the cover and I’ll buy you a coffee.”

~//~

Gabe barged into the postgrad office with a booming “Good morning, my minions!”

Ryland groaned, lifting his head from a stack of books. “That’s an oxymoron. Life only gets good after lunch.”

Gabe patted him on the shoulder. “I am still on Jersey time, minion. It is after lunch for me.” Ryland let his head fall forward with a thump. “Where is minion #2? Alex?” he hollered, his voice bouncing around the small room.

Frank threw a wadded up ball of paper at him. “Dude, we’re so taking away your visitation rights if you keep that up.”

Gabe caught it and tossed it back. “Shut up and graduate. Alex? Oh Alex, where are you?”

The door to the office rattled open. “Gabe, I could hear you halfway down the damn corridor,” Alex complained as he juggled his keys, bag, and a stack of books.

“Then my dulcet tones served their purpose. Come on. You too, Ry,” he added, tugging at Ryland’s arm. “Let’s go.”

“Where?”

“Coffee, my treat.”

Ryland looked up suspiciously. “And?”

Gabe smiled disarmingly. “And a free and open discussion on how much tutoring you’ll be doing for me this year.”

Ryland turned to Alex. “Always a catch.”

Alex dumped his stuff on his cluttered desk. “A catch with free caffeine.”

“Exactly, my minions. Look on the bright side.”

“A long way from here,” Frank grumbled as he poked his head over the low divider. “I was counting on a quiet office with B out in the field with Patrick,” he told Alex. “So get out, take your maniac of a supervisor with you, and don’t let him follow you back.”

Ryland stood up and started shrugging on his coat. “We tried that, but he just kept stalking us, asking for chapter updates.”

“Just fulfilling my supervisory duties with love and care and attention,” Gabe said with a leer. “Come on, children,” he cried, clapping his hands encouragingly. “Rock and roll.”

~//~

Ray stumbled out of the elevator, trying to shake off the sleepiness that came from sitting in long, boring, University meetings in too-stuffy rooms. He swore, again, that he was never going to let himself be roped into another damn committee; they always just left him grumpy. Turning down his corridor, he nodded a greeting at Zack coming the other way.

Zack smiled. “You,” he said conspiratorially as he got closer. “Owe me a coffee.”

Ray laughed, his bad mood evaporating in the face of Zack’s barely contained glee. “Seriously? Outstanding,” he laughed as he high-fived Zack. “How the hell did you get that cover past Brian?”

Zack waved Ray into his office and plucked a handful of proofs off the counter. “He just raised an eyebrow, then went _okay_. Here,” Zack said, thrusting the proofs of the booklet at Ray. “Check these out, make sure there are no stupid spelling errors.”

Ray cast his eye quickly over the cover text and handed it back. “Looks fine to me. You know, after all this work, I wonder whether the kids will even notice.”

Zack tossed the proofs back on his in-tray. “Hey, who knows. We may get a few more geeks signing up to join our program of future global domination.”

Ray laughed. “First, the freshers, next, the program, then the world.”

Zack stifled a laugh. “Just don’t start chanting ‘one of us’ at orientation this time, okay?”

~//~  
 _DATE: Monday, Feb 16_  
TO: allstaff_announce  
FROM: Brian Schechter  
SUBJECT: Advising and Orientation

_Advising starts this Friday, and continues until next Wednesday. Attached is the draft schedule for advising sessions. Please let me know ASAP if you can’t make any of your scheduled sessions – do not make changes among yourselves, since this year all changes must come through me to be made official. The advising box will be kept in Zack’s office, please collect it yourselves prior to each session and return it (including the calculator!) at the end. Professor Wentz will be advising on Wednesday (last day of advising) if there are any students seeking substantial course revisions. All honours students must be enrolled by Dr Salpeter only. Remember, you sign the forms, so we know who fucked up!_

_Brian  
Who wants his calculator back this year!_

~//~

Ryan clutched his satchel close as he weaved his way through the crowds, desperately searching for: there.

Gerard waved at him, hopping up as Ryan sat down. “Awesome, hold the fort, I need–” and he was gone before Ryan could even start to say ‘but I don’t know anything!’

A loud cough dragged his attention back to the young girl standing in front of the desk. She said something, but her words were lost in the echoing noise of the crowded hall.

“What?” Ryan half-yelled.

She leaned a little closer. She smelt of cheap perfume and stale beer. “I said, can you sign this for me, please. I just need a signature. I’m meant to be finishing this semester.”

He gingerly took the paper and tried to smooth out the worst of the creases. The girl sighed impatiently. Ryan picked up the red pen Gerard had dropped, and tried to look like he knew what he was doing, what those weird letter codes actually meant. The red pen hovered, and he felt the same he had the first time he had marked an essay – like someone had given him all this power in error, and they’d be along any second now to claim it back and reveal him as a know-nothing fraud.

Gerard dropped back into the seat beside him, a take-away coffee cup in each hand. “Got it. Oh, hey Anna. Anna, this is Dr Ross, our newest staff member.” Ryan surrendered gratefully as Gerard plucked the sheet out of his hands. “Anna was in my first year,” he trailed off as he read the form, “Oh, hey, why are you taking 323 this semester? You totally need to take 205 first, you know?”

Ryan grabbed up the second coffee for something to hold in his hands and tried to follow as Gerard calmly scribbled things out and wrote other things in. “You’ll really love Dr Asher’s course, she’s awesome, trust me.” The student giggled as she took her paper and disappeared into the crowd. “Get all that?”

Ryan frowned at the plastic lid, finger tracing the curved edge. “No,” he admitted quietly. “I’ve never done this before, we had a different system entirely at my last campus. Full-time advisors, that sort of thing.”

Gerard rolled his eyes. “We’ve been begging for that here for years. At least we don’t have to sign everyone’s enrolling paperwork, only the ones with special programs, or who are graduating this year.” He sighed and gulped a mouthful of coffee. “Of course, that’s still a hundred plus kids just in our area alone, each of whom thinks they are a precious and unique snowflake.

Ryan smiled despite himself. “I don’t even know the program yet, and I’m meant to make sure they graduate? How do you know I’m not going to give bad advice to every one of them?”

Gerard grinned. “We kinda expect that you’ll need to sign off on an intake or two before you start getting it right. Just remember that the computers spit out the really bad mistakes ninety nine percent of the time, and the other one percent weren’t really that bad to begin with. Check the requirements, count the points, and if in doubt, pass them along to someone else.” He saluted Ryan with his own cup. “Trust me, enjoy that privilege and claim ignorance while you can. Oh hey, here’s another one. You try.” He gave Ryan an encouraging little nod before looking up at the student. “Hi there, yeah, I know you think you just need a signature, but Dr Ross here is just going to check and make sure, okay.”

Ryan picked up his pen, took a deep breath, and began to read.

~//~

Bob stared at the email blankly.

_Dear Professor Bryar  
Thank you for your application for the position [Ref: BA556742]. We are pleased to invite you to interview with the committee via videoconference on—_

His eyes tracked down through the email. Interview? No way, no how. Glancing at his monitor’s clock, he double-checked the time difference, then reached for the telephone.

The number rang four times, then the line clicked as he was transferred to messaging. “Hi, you’ve reached the number of Professor Quinn Alman. I’m not in at the moment, please leave your name, contact information, and a brief message after the beep, unless you’re calling to ask for an extension, in which case the answer is no.”

Bob swallowed convulsively as he listened to the tone. “Quinn, it’s Bob. Tell me you didn’t swing it for me, man. Tell me this isn’t because I know you. Just,” he sighed and rubbed his face, the rasp of stubble loud in the silence. “Call me. At home, if you need to. Just call me.”

He hung up and stared blankly at the wall. “Mother _fucker_.”

~//~

 


	2. Chapter 2

_  
DATE: Monday, Feb 23  
TO: allstaff_announce  
FROM: Brian Schechter  
SUBJECT: Pre-semester extended staff meeting_

_To confirm, the new year staff meeting is this Thursday at Whitman Hall (map attached). The current agenda is also attached, but if there are any other issues you feel need to be raised, please let either myself or Professor Wentz know by noon Wednesday at the latest. As per tradition, we will be going to dinner afterwards, but not Petrelli’s this year (no-one wants a repeat of last year’s battle with salmonella poisoning). The office staff have voted for Campesi’s Pizza – anyone who disagrees can take it up with Zack._

_Brian Schechter  
Overworked and Underpizza-ed_

~//~

Ryan fumbled his key into the lock, and tried to let himself in as quietly as he could. He relaxed a little when he heard the TV burbling quietly in the living room – Spencer was still up. Dropping his bag onto the hall chair, he stretched as he wandered towards the source of the noise. “Hey Spence,” he yawned.

There was a muffled squeak and a thump. Ryan stopped and stared as Spencer hastily tugged his shirt closed. On the floor, Jon groaned as he got his knees under him. Ryan raised one eyebrow, slowly. “I see you had a better day than I did?”

Spencer struggled to regain some measure of composure. “I thought you had a departmental dinner?”

Ryan leaned over the back of the sofa and offered Jon a hand up. “Victoria was my ride, and she wanted to leave early.” He glared mildly at Jon, who was blushing scarlet in embarrassment. He squeezed Jon’s hand, hard, before letting go. “Another big day tomorrow, and all.”

Jon took the hint. “Yeah,” he said, clearing his throat. “Me too, I should be going.”

Spencer glared at Ryan in passing as he escorted Jon to the door. When he came back, Ryan had his shoes off and was idly flipping through the channels. “Ryan Ross, are you fucking cockblocking me?”

Ryan turned off the TV and stood up. He pulled Spencer into a loose hug, pecking a sweet kiss on his cheek. “Spencer, who else is going to defend your honour?” He skipped back, laughing, as Spencer took a swipe at him. “No, seriously,” he grinned wickedly. “I’ve obviously been remiss in my duties in protecting my delicate flower of a best friend.”

Spencer leapt across the coffee table and tackled him onto the couch, fingers mercilessly digging into his ribs. Ryan squirmed, laughing, as Spencer’s tickles skirted the edge of pain. “Say it,” Spencer growled.

“Never!” Ryan cried, gasping for air. Spencer’s fingers pressed hard into the groove of his ribs. “Ouch, fuck, okay, okay, mercy!” He breathed hard as Spencer rolled off him to sprawl over the rest of the couch. They lay side by side, their breathing slowly dropping back to normal. “But, seriously. You and Jon are what?”

Spencer groaned and threw his arm over his eyes. “Complicated? Acting like twelve year old girls? Never get a moment to ourselves?” He glared as Ryan poked him meaningfully in the leg. “I like him, Ry,” he finally admitted quietly.

Ryan frowned, choosing his words carefully. “Don’t hate me for asking this, but are you sure this isn’t just a rebound thing?”

Spencer’s scoff cut him off. “It’s been a year, Ry, I think I’m past the expiration date for rebound fucking.” He picked at his nails for a moment. “Haley’s announced her engagement,” he admitted quietly. “She emailed me to let me know before I heard it on the grapevine. If she’s that moved on, I think I can date without guilt, don’t you.”

Ryan scowled at the news. “Email her back and tell her that you’re fucking dudes now, and see what reaction that gets.”

“She’d probably demand photos, actually,” Spencer shot back with a brief laugh that trailed off into silence. Ryan stroked Spencer’s leg and let him wander in his memories for a moment. “Jon’s,” he hesitated, an uncharacteristic pause. “Jon’s nice, Ry.”

Ryan raised an eyebrow. “Just nice?”

Spencer poked out his tongue. “Actually, he’s hot like burning and I want to hit that like the fist of an angry god, but I figured that might have been TMI.”

Ryan laughed and nodded. Patting Spencer on the leg, he leaned forward and snatched the newspaper off the coffee table. “What are you looking for,” Spencer asked, confused.

Ryan took a deep breath. “I’m seeing what movies are on tomorrow night so I can guarantee I’ll be out of the house for a few hours, okay?”

Spencer petted Ryan’s cheek with his toes. “You’re awesome, did I tell you that?”

Ryan batted at his leg. “And your feet stink, fuck off.” He folded the paper and tossed it on Spencer’s chest. “I’ll pick something tomorrow. Right now, I’m exhausted.”

Spencer grinned. “Captain Wentz working the troops overtime? Share the gossip?”

Ryan nodded, rubbing his eyes. “Tomorrow. I really do need sleep.”

He left Spencer alone and trudged upstairs to his cold, empty bedroom.

~//~ __

_DATE: Monday, Feb 30  
TO: allstaff_announce  
FROM: Brian Schechter  
SUBJECT: Start of Semester One_

_In case you haven’t noticed, teaching for semester one begins on Monday. There has been a delay with the printing of some course packs, but the printery assures us they will all be done by the end of the first week. Outlines were due last Friday. If you haven’t submitted your outline yet, please email it directly to Zack, who will accept bribes of cash and alcohol to have them ready in time for teaching. Otherwise, he will get to them if he can._

_Good luck!  
Brian Schechter  
Who is happy he is Not-a-Teacher  
_  
Zack frowned as Victoria pawed through the contents of her mailbox with one hand and sniffled into the tissue she was holding to her nose with the other. “Fresher flu?”

Victoria nodded, eyes red, expression one of pure misery. “I hate the little fuckers, why do they have to breathe on you?”

Zack leaned out of her way. “Cough on them, not on me.”

Victoria grinned evilly. “Just wait til they start hanging off your counter, coughing up their lungs.” She sneezed, then scowled at Zack’s grin. “You’ll get yours, Hall.” 

Zack laughed as he collected his printouts from the copier jammed into the corner of the mailroom. “No way. I am a strong, healthy virile man, with lots of antibodies and even more alcohol still sloshing around my veins. I am immune!”

Victoria cackled hoarsely. “I’ll remind you that you said that when you’re hoarding the tissue boxes.” She waggled her fingers in goodbye as she swept out of the room.

Zack grinned and went to pin the latest corrections up on the noticeboard. A familiar shape was slouching along the noticeboards. “Haven’t you graduated yet, Mikeyway?” Zack boomed.

Mikey lifted his head. “Gee keeps saying I should do honours when I graduate. I figure if I never graduate, I don’t have to do honours.”

Zack grinned as tore down the old list and replaced it with the new printout. “So whatcha doing this year?”

Mikey made a non-committed noise. “Victoria’s signed me into her feminism and pop culture class, and I thought I might take the new guys’ critical theory thing, and Pete’s other seminar.”

Zack shook his head. “Head of Department, youngest full professor on faculty, has his own goddamned chair, and yet you still call him Pete?”

Mikey made an airy gesture that managed to convey how little titles impressed him. “I need to change my seminar time for the crit theory, though. They streamed me into a fucking Wednesday morning class.”

Zack nodded sagely. “Completely unacceptable, what with your RP troop meeting Tuesday night and all.”

“Exactly,” Mikey said with a unironic note of satisfaction. He watched impassively as Zack riffled through the piles of forms and found the right signup sheet. “Here, you know how these work.” As Mikey sighed, the doors to the lobby swung open and a young face peered tentatively out.

“Umm, excuse me,” he began.

“Changing your seminar time?” Zack boomed happily.

“Uhh,” the new guy stuttered. “Yeah? For Dr Ross’ critical theory class?”

“Two for two,” Zack grinned. “Here, take your pick.” He plucked out a second form, and handed it over with a wave at the board. “Alternate times are posted up there.”

Mikey didn’t move over as the new guy crept along the row of notice boards. “Come on, Zack.” Zack shrugged and leaned against the wall. He rolled his neck slowly, teasing the tense muscles. Mikey rolled his eyes, looking thoroughly unimpressed. 

“I did notice that Tuesday at two was a little quiet,” he said at last.

“Tuesday, two to four,” Mikey tilted his head to one side, and Zack could almost see Mikey’s mental processes as he slotted the class into his imaginary schedule. “Yeah, okay. Pen?” He demanded with an imperious flick of his fingers.

Zack grinned, staying silent for a long moment before pulling a pen out of his pocket and handing it over with a flourish.

Mikey scrawled the time into the box and thrust the pen back into Zack’s hands. “Thanks. Hey, is that thing still on this afternoon. The zombie guy?”

Zack nodded as he pulled Mikey back to let the new guy pass by, still scanning the boards. “Starts at three, drinks and nibbles to follow as usual. No doubt you and your brother will be in the front row taking notes.”

Mikey shrugged. “It’s zombies,” he said as if that explained everything. With the Ways’, it probably did.

“Excuse me,” the new kid interrupted. Zack blinked. Normally the freshers didn’t dare draw attention to themselves. “What’s this about zombies?”

Mikey stared blankly at the kid long enough for the guy to start to fidget under his gaze. “They’ve got a visiting scholar in, his speciality is European cinematic horror. He’s giving a talk this afternoon.”

The kid looked over at Zack. “And we can go?”

Zack shrugged. “Not like we lock the doors or anything. And there’s free food after.” He looked around and found the poster. “There’s the details.”

The kid beamed. “Awesome.” He bounced on the spot. “Hey, I might see you there?” he said to an unimpressed Mikeyway. The kid thrust his form at Zack. With a friendly wave, he disappeared through the far doors. Mikey rolled his eyes and followed, nodding distractedly to Zack as he left.

Zack looked at the scrawled changes on the sign-in sheet. Craig, or Chris or…something beginning with a C was scribbled in under Mikey’s signature on the Tuesday sign-in sheet

Zack whistled cheerfully to himself as he wandered back to his office

~//~

Brian stared at the coffee pot as it slowly drip-drip-dripped, almost hypnotised by the rhythm. He blinked, his concentration breaking as someone stepped up behind him with a sigh. Brian smelled a wave of faint, sweet perfume and heard the swish of cotton, an unmistakable combination. “Hello Miss Greta,” he greeted her without looking up.

“Bri, please tell me caffeine is pending.”

Brian looked up, surprised at the level of pleading in her voice. “Long week?” he asked sympathetically.

Greta nodded, leaning heavily against the bench. “And it’s only Tuesday.”

Brian walked over to the little fridge and pulled out the milk. “Yep. Wrong time to remind you that the honours class has their orientation meeting this afternoon?”

Greta groaned loudly and turned to gently thump her forehead against the nearest wall. 

Brian patted her shoulder consolingly. “We were printing out the packs yesterday,” he continued as he found two mugs and put them into the sink to wash. Doing dishes seemed to be a skill lost to anyone with an advanced degree, as he had learnt the hard way early on. “And we noticed that the fourth year coordinator wasn’t on the schedule to speak.”

Greta turned her head and smiled sweetly. “Damn, you noticed my cunning plan to sit down and shut up, huh?”

Brian winked at her as he rinsed out a mug and handed it to her. “Foiled again!”

She snapped her fingers. “Can I buy your silence with tasty, tasty coffee?”

Brian held out his mug meaningfully. “It’s your silence I’m worried about. Do you want me to slot you into the session?”

Greta shook her head quickly, curls whipping over her shoulders. “I’ll interject if necessary, but seriously, I just want to show up, sit there, and look vaguely interesting.”

Brian stirred the sugar and sighed. “I’m holding you to that. I’ll come get you when its time to go, you can help me carry the boxes.”

“Deal!” Greta clinked her mug to his and drifted off with a swish of summer cotton. Brian shook his head and headed back to the office. There were already half a dozen lost freshers queued up at Zack’s counter. It was going to be a long day. 

~//~

Mikey wandered into the seminar room five minutes before class time. There were only two other people there so far, both sitting in awkward silence on either side of the central aisle. Mikey rolled his eyes and made a beeline for his usual back corner seat. He slung his bag into the seat next to his to discourage neighbours, and pulled out his phone. 

He was deep into composing an epic text when he sensed someone looking at him. He glanced up at the kid who was dumping his stuff on the table in the next row. “Hey,” the kid said with a little nod. 

Mikey gave a tiny little nod of vague recognition in return and resumed his texting. Instead of taking the hint, the kid span around in his seat and leaned on folded arms on Mikey’s desk. “How’d you like that zombie talk, heh? Some pretty cool clips.”

Mikey shrugged, never taking his eyes off the screen. “Whatever.” He’d thought the clips were derivative, and Gee had given a pretty thorough critical decimation of the guy over coffee after, but he wasn’t going to bother arguing it with this kid.

The kid had other ideas. “I’m glad you’re here, it’s at least one familiar face. I transferred here just this year, so it’s all new.” He laughed as if remembering something. “Shit, hey, I’m babbling at you and I don’t think I’ve even introduced myself. I’m Cash.” At that, Mikey raised an eyebrow. “Yeah, I know. Cash like in money. I should probably be in Commerce or something. I didn’t catch your name?”

“Mikey,” he grounded out reluctantly. Giving out his name was too much like encouragement.

At that point, Dr Ross stumbled into the room, nearly dropping the stacks of papers and books in his arms. He dumped the lot in a messy pile on the front desk, and surveyed the classroom with pursed lips. Mikey glanced around, counting heads. Six, including himself and Cash. He’d heard Gerard rant enough about tiny undergraduate classes to know the other perspective. He smirked to himself and leaned back in his chair, waiting and watching.

Ross managed to go through the usual introductory material without too much trouble, outlining assessments and office hours and all the usual bureaucracy that went with a start of semester.

“And now we’ll break into groups.” Mikey glanced away as the class snickered. “I mean,” Ross scrambled. “Let’s try pairs. Pair up with the person next – nearest you, introduce yourselves, and then I want you to discuss responses to these questions.”

Mikey squinted at the screen, struggling with the tiny font on the slide, as Cash turned his chair around. “Well, we’ve already established that I’m Cash and you’re Mikey. Question one?”

Cash might have looked like an escapee from the business school, but he knew his theory. Mikey found himself working to keep on top of the debate, Cash arguing counterpoint at every turn. He’d forgotten entirely about the rest of the class until Ross clapped his hands. “Okay,” he said as the various conversations around the room died down. “Let’s start with question one. Umm, you two at the back.”

Cash earned himself serious brownie points with Mikey by taking the lead, outlining all their points quickly and clearly. Ross nodded and moved onto the next group. Cash nudged Mikey’s elbow and gave a big, showy wink. Mikey relaxed and listened to the next group stutter out a shallow answer.

The rest of the class time passed slowly, and by quarter to, even Ross had given up. “Okay, that’s enough for today. Make sure you’ve done the readings for next week before class, okay?” Mikey gathered his gear together as the two girls up the front button-holed Ross with simpering questions.

Cash nodded at them. “Teach has admirers,” he observed, bag already slung over his shoulder. Mikey shrugged, unconcerned. There were always one or two who tried that, but everyone knew it wouldn’t work. Students were off-limits, and that was that. Didn’t stop some trying, though. As he edged out of the row into the aisle, Cash followed, falling into step with him as they headed out of the seminar room. “Hey, Mikey, have you given any thought to the big project? The group one?”

Mikey rolled his eyes. He hated group projects. He always ended up with either the A+ freaks who stressed everything, or the C- slackers who dumped all the work on him at the last minute. 

“Well, you wanna team up?” Cash laughed. “Otherwise, who knows who we’ll get lumped with.”

Mikey shrugged. “Whatever.” He turned the corner and poked the elevator call button.

“Sweet,” Cash said, almost bouncing on the spot. “Here, gimme your number. I’ll text you, we can grab coffee or something and hash out what we want to do.”

Mikey took the phone and punched in his number. Cash almost snatched it out of his hands. “Awesome, catch you later.” He turned and disappeared down the stairs. 

Mikey shoved his hands into his pockets and waited for the elevator.

~//~

Greta blew her hair off her face as she struggled up the steps, the heavy box she carried threatening to tip her over any second. “Geez, Brian,” she huffed as she tripped over the threshold and deposited the box on the table. “What do you have in here, the national mint?”

“Hmm?” Brian hummed, distracted. “Oh, the handbook, the student-assist workshop schedule, the contracts, the lecture and assignment schedules and overviews.”

Greta poked at the stacks of paper in the box. “How many trees died for this?”

“And just think how little of it they’ll read!” a voice called from the doorway. 

Greta smiled and plucked out one of the packets, fanning herself with it. “Do I win a prize if I say ‘none of it,’ Pete?”

Brian snorted, nodding a greeting to his boss as Pete sauntered over. “Only if the prize is one free slap when they come to us the day before submission with stupid questions that could have been dealt with months ago if they’d just read the damn paperwork?”

“Oooh,” Pete teased. “I’m sensing issues, Brian.”

Brian slapped one of the packets against Pete’s chest. “Completely justified.”

Pete winced theatrically and patted his chest. “That’s borderline boss abuse, Brian.”

Brian’s grin was wicked. “Completely justified,” he repeated.

Greta giggled as Pete turned to her in mute appeal. “No jury in the world would convict.” She turned with the others at the sound of voices outside the door.

Pete lifted an eyebrow suggestively at her. “Saved by the horde.”

Brian groaned. “Isn’t that an oxymoron?”

Greta laughed lightly and began to distribute the packets across the front two rows of seats. “No,” she said. “It’s just really ironic.”

~//~  
 _  
DATE: Monday, March 3  
TO: allstaff_announce  
FROM: Pete Wentz  
SUBJECT: Academic Promotions_

_Just a reminder that next week HR will be conducting preliminary workshops for those considering promotion this year. Anyone considering (even vaguely) promotion should come see me. Or ask Patrick, he’s back and he knows more about these things. Remember, if you don’t ask, you don’t get, kiddies!  
-PW_

__  
Victoria took a deep breath and dropped her forehead onto the desk with a satisfyingly hard thump. She let her arms hang down and just focused for a moment on breathing.

She sat there like that, thoughts whirling, until she heard someone walk into her office and put something on her desk. There were only three people who would dare enter her office uninvited: Brian was at the orientation with Greta, and Gabe was usually much louder.

“Hey Gee,” she muttered without looking up.

“Hey VickyT,” Gerard replied. Something clicked dully, then the warm smell of freshly brewed coffee filled the room. “You looked like someone who needed a pick me up.”

She sat upright slowly, rolling her neck to ease out the cricks and strain. “Thanks,” she said, accepting the cup Gerard had poured for her. It was from his secret stash, hot and strong, and she took a moment to just wrap her fingers around the cup and inhale the scent.

Gerard perched himself on her desk and let her be. Victoria exhaled slowly and took the first sip, closing her eyes against the strength of the brew. She could get a headrush just from that.

She looked up to see Gerard studying her. “You also look like someone with a problem.”

Victoria snorted. “Just a little one.” She licked her lips and took another sip, marshalling her thoughts. “Did you see the email Pete passed around on Monday, about promotions?”

Gerard nodded. “You’re going up, right?”

Victoria shrugged and glanced at the monitor, where her CV sat, mocking her with its gaps. “I was thinking about it,” she said lamely.

“Past tense?” Gerard asked sharply. “Please,” he added with an eyeroll. “With what you’ve accomplished here, I’d be half-tempted to recommend taking a skip.”

She couldn’t help the bitter snort of laughter that escaped. “Skip? Please, Gerard. I’m barely scraping by to go for over the bar.”

Gerard put his cup down onto the desk with a thump. “Wait, you’re only applying for over the bar within lecturer, not to go into professorial? What on earth for? Why the fuck would you settle for a pissy little pay rise in your own grade when you can step up to the next level and be a professor?”

“Well,” she said with a shrug. “The extra money would be nice, if I can get it.”

“Victoria Asher,” Gerard snapped. “You are more than qualified to go from senior lecturer to associate professor. You only get what you apply for, and if you apply for anything less you’re selling short not only yourself but everything you’ve accomplished!”

Victoria leaned back in her chair, forced back momentarily by the almost visceral vehemence of Gerard’s outburst. “Huh,” she said sarcastically, pushing back. “I guess when you’ve already made associate professor, it must look easy, but trust me, from where I’m sitting, it’s a vertical climb.” She put the cup down on her desk and used the mouse to scroll her CV back to the top of the page. “No, I think I’ll play it safe, go for AP next year, or the year after.”

Gerard sighed, sounding honestly disappointed. “Honey,” he said softly. “Remember when you and Greta were bitching about the glass ceiling?” He looked her right in the eye. “If you don’t go up for the full promotion, you’ll be putting the panes in yourself. I know what you’re capable of, and I know your work. It’s good enough. Go for AP.” He scooped up the coffee pot and both mugs. “But don’t just take my word for it. Ask Patrick, or Gabe. Talk to Pete. They’ll all tell you the same thing. You can be Associate Professor Asher. All you’ve got to do is reach out and take it.”

Victoria watched him leave before she span her chair around to face her CV again. Taking a deep breath, she called up the promotion criteria from the human resources website and began going down the list once more.

~//~

Bob looked up at the light rap on wood, grinning at the face that poked itself around the door. “Hey, welcome back Ray!”

Ray stepped fully into Bob’s office, slumping gratefully into the chair Bob indicated. “Thanks, man. How you been?”

Bob gestured expansively at the mess of open books and teetering piles of paper. “The usual. How was your trip?”

Ray nodded thoughtfully. “Good, good. Little interstate hops are always fun, and the paper went down well, met some interesting people doing some cool new shit with narrative analysis.” He fidgeted for a moment. “Heard some interesting gossip.”

Bob shuffled aside some paper so he could rest his elbows on his desk. “Yeah, such as?”

Ray looked up, face expressionless. “Such as you’re heading back to the States to take up a position in Quinn’s department.”

Bob felt the blood drain from his face. “That’s.” He picked his words with care. “That’s not true.” He saw Ray make a face. “No, seriously.” He took a deep breath. “They’ve made an offer, but I haven’t accepted it yet.”

“Yet,” Ray noted flatly. “So you are going to take it?”

Bob tried to phrase an answer, but the words wouldn’t come. He just didn’t know what to say.

Ray smiled weakly and shook his head. “Dude, you’d be crazy not to. Back in the States, closer to family, working with old friends.” He stood up to go, but turned back for a moment, hip resting against the back of the chair. “Rumour said they’d offered you a sweet paycheque, benefits, everything. Be a fool not to take it.” He straightened up. “Just give us plenty of time to throw you the going away bash of the century, got it?”

Bob nodded slowly.

“Sweet. Catch you later, gotta go find Brian and sort my travel fund.” With a wave, he was gone, closing the door behind him.

Bob sat back in his chair and resisted the urge to pull the formal offer out of his drawer. He knew it word for word, he didn’t need to read it again.

Ray was right, it was perfect. So what was he waiting for?

~//~

Ryan took a deep breath and approached the door at the end of the corridor. It was closed, as always – in the three months he had been here, he had never seen it open once, nor even seen the owner for more than a brief moment beyond their initial introduction during Ryan’s whirlwind of an arrival. He knew of him, of course, everyone in their field did. His works were standard reading. Ryan had cited no less than three of his books in his own thesis. But so far, they hadn’t really spoken. The email requesting that he come by had therefore been more than a bit of a surprise.

He tugged at his cuffs nervously as he walked up, exhaled slowly, and knocked three times. Ryan stepped back, startled, as the door opened. He frowned. “Hi, umm.”

Greta smiled weakly. “Hi Ryan.” She looked over her shoulder. “Your next appointment is here.” She smoothed her dress as she sidled past, disappearing down the corridor without another word.

Ryan watched her go for a moment before recalling himself. He stepped just inside the threshold, tapping lightly on the doorframe. “Professor Stump?”

“Come in, come in,” he called as the phone rang. “Shit, just a moment. Take a seat,” he said, already reaching for the phone.

Ryan moved slowly. The shades were drawn, and the only artificial light was from a solitary lamp next to a laptop that was perched precariously on a stack of books. Ryan couldn’t see the surface of the desk under boxes of papers and more stacks of books and journals that all looked likely to topple at any moment. He took the seat facing Patrick, feet nudging up against another stack of journals on the floor.

“Yeah, that’s fine,” Patrick was saying. “But if he wants any more money, that’s a budget issue and he will need Pete’s real, actual signature. Yeah, yeah, check with Brian. Listen, Gee, got someone here, gotta go. Yeah, right, cool, bye.” He pushed the phone into its cradle, then plucked it back out again and dropped it on the desk. “Dr Ross, thanks for coming by. How are you settling in?”

“Fine,” Ryan said weakly. “I mean, it’s still all new and crazy, but I’m getting work done, and Greta – Dr Salpeter has been really helpful in getting me settled.”

Patrick smiled, small and soft. “That sounds like our Greta. Good,” he continued briskly. “Listen, the reason I called you in today was to discuss mentoring. Did Pete mention mentoring to you at all?” he asked hopefully.

Ryan shook his head.

Patrick sighed and began flipping through papers. “Of course he didn’t,” he muttered. “Listen, normally we try and get mentors who aren’t close colleagues, and we’ll certain put the word out for you. But in the interim, I think we can get the conversation rolling in-house. We did the same thing for Greta and Ray when they arrived,” he added, looking directly at Ryan.

“Okay,” Ryan said, a little confused.

Patrick just smiled tightly. “Given your field, I think Pete’s the best choice to be a research mentor.” Ryan barely managed to swallow the little squeal of surprise that threatened to escape at that announcement. Patrick just rolled his eyes and kept shuffling papers. “I had it here. Right, yes, here we go.” He pulled out a clipped-together wad of paper blazoned with the logo for HR. “And Gabe – Professor Saporta has agreed to be an interim teaching mentor.” Patrick looked up from the paperwork. “He has an excellent teaching portfolio, you might find his insights very useful, particularly when you write up your initial reports for your first career review.” 

Ryan silently accepted the stack of paper. “Pete may have mentioned the reviews,” Patrick said in a tone of voice that clearly conveyed that he doubted it. “But we generally just talk about the unholy trinity.” He counted them off on his fingers. “Teaching, research, and service. You’ve already got one or two good publications under your belt, but the review will only count what you’ve published since joining us. So you and Pete should meet sometime next week, start on a research plan for you.” He barely waited for Ryan’s nod before continuing. “And you can work with Gabe about getting your teaching in order. Gabe’s expecting you, so don’t be afraid to get in touch. And I think we can leave service til you’ve had a few months to settle in. Just don’t let Pete forget, and if you get an offer to join a committee in the meantime, well, we’ll take that as it comes. Any questions? No? Excellent. Now, if you’ll excuse me?”

Ryan found himself back in the corridor, blinking and unsure how he had got there. The next door down opened and Joe strolled out. He stopped when he saw Ryan. “Ahh,” he said knowingly. “Cyclone Patrick has claimed another victim, I see.” He patted Ryan on the shoulder. “Take my advice, Ryan. Go and write down everything you remember. Because, trust me, Patrick will remember what he said and he’ll assume you do too. Crib notes are vital for dealing with The Stump.”

Ryan staggered back to his office and reached for a pen and paper.

~//~ 

Gerard sat, staring at the phone, willing it to ring. He nearly leapt out of his seat Aat the knock on his door.

Greta eased inside with a weak smile, tension visible in every line of her body. “Has he called in yet?” she asked.

Gerard shook his head as he pushed the phone to the centre of the desk, directly between them, and leaned forward to rest his chin on his forearms. Greta settled herself into his office chair and fished a little packet out of her bag. “Here,” she said, offering it to him. “Chocolate cures everything,” she told him firmly. “Not that we need a cure,” she added. “Because it will be fine.” She sounded like she was convincing herself as much as him.

Gerard nibbled listlessly without tasting, his stomach churning with nerves. The clock on the far wall ticked silently past the hour. One minute, two. Five. Ten. Fifteen.

Greta gasped as the phone rang. Gerard snatched it up, fumbling with the buttons and the cord. “Yes?” he asked breathlessly.

Greta watched Gerard’s face as he nodded intently. “Yes? Yes. No, I don’t think. Yeah, okay. See you.”

“Well?” She demanded.

Gerard let out a long sigh. “She’s here. Jetlagged and apparently food poisoned, but she’s here.”

Greta elegantly raised one eyebrow, wordlessly encouraging him to continue.

He shrugged. “Bad snack in transit through Hong Kong, they think. Frankie was kinda in a rush to get her to the hotel.”

“Is she going to be able to do the keynote on Thursday?” Greta blurted out. She then blushed. “I mean, I want her to feel better first, but—”

Gerard scrubbed his face with his hands. “We’ll see tomorrow. Gods, this symposia is cursed, isn’t it?”

Greta rose and gathered her things. “Bad things come in threes. We’ve got one more storm to weather.” She gave him a little wink. “Go have a cigarette, you stupid fool, so you’re not completely stressed out when it hits.”

Gerard patted his pockets for his keys and his lighter and followed her out into the corridor. “When Frank gets back, I’ll send him over to go over the volunteer schedule with you.”

“Thanks,” she said, fumbling her keys into the lock and pushing open her door. “What else have we forgotten?”

“We’ll find out when we trip over it, I guess,” Gerard said with a shrug and a little salute.

“That’s very helpful, Gerard,” Greta yelled after him.

~//~

Bob rapped lightly on the doorframe, waiting just long enough for Brian to glance up before entering. Brian’s fingers continued to fly over his keyboard as Bob slouched into the chair opposite.

The silence stretched out between them.

Without looking away from the screen, Brian asked in a tight voice. “So, when are you leaving?”

Bob shook his head. “I’m not.” The clatter of keys died away. Bob studied his hands, splayed over his knees. “I mean, if I go, who will keep Gee company on smoke breaks, or torment Patrick’s grad students with stories of our postgrad days, or eat cake with Greta, or help you keep Pete in line? Quinn and Bert’s brand of crazy has nothing on ours.”

“But you miss them,” Brian said quietly.

“Yeah,” Bob agreed easily. “But if I go, I’ll miss you assholes. Besides,” he added with a deliberately casual shrug. “All my stuff’s here.”

Brian grinned. “You realize we’re going to have to throw a giant ‘you’re not leaving’ party now, right?”

Bob rose to his feet. “As long as there’s enough cake to go round, I’m cool.”

“I think there’s room in the budget,” a voice agreed from the doorway. Pete was leaning there, a stack of folders in his arms. “Glad to hear you’re staying, Bryar. Hiring committees are a bitch, and we only just finished the last one. But now, get to work, I need my admin back.”

Tossing off a casual salute, Bob ambled back to his office and got back to work.

~//~

Jon expertly juggled the little cardboard tray as he nudged the elevator call button with his elbow. He turned at the sound of his name, his smile turning into a scowl as the double-black made another attempt for the floor.

“Shit,” Ryan cursed as he awkwardly dived in, hands out and ready to catch. “Here, let me help you with that.” He divested Jon of the paper sack and the fistful of sugars and flimsy plastic spoons, leaving Jon two hands to hold his steaming cargo.

“Thanks,” Jon said as the elevator chimed its arrival.

“No problem.” It might have been Jon’s imagination, but Ryan looked just as uncomfortable as Jon felt. He struggled to fill the silence. “Victoria called,” he said, lifting the tray slightly. “I am on a mission of mercy.”

Ryan nodded sagely. “The conference starts tomorrow. I understand they’ve had a few problems.”

Jon snorted. “By few, I’m assuming you mean epic fuckups of a biblical kind. Spencer thinks Murphy’s riding shotgun on them.” Ryan shot Jon a sharp sideways glance at the mention of Spencer’s name, but the chiming of the doors opening curtailed any comment. 

Jon stepped into the lobby and turned towards the far offices. Ryan snorted as he caught Jon’s elbow. “They’ve taken over the conference room, this way, come on.” He strode off down the corridor, leaving Jon to scramble in his wake. He caught up just as Ryan was rapping his knuckles on the doorframe. Ryan pushed the door open and gestured Jon to go in first.

Jon plastered a smile on his face. “Did someone order caffeine?” He nodded his thanks to Ryan as he deposited the rest of the order on the table before turning his attention back to the job at hand.

Ryan was nowhere to be seen as Jon left the conference room. Glancing at his watch, Jon crossed the lobby and, instead of turning left towards the elevator bank, turned right.

The corridor was surprisingly busy, and Jon had to push past a gaggle of students pouring out of a seminar room and dodge another pair leaving the administration area, forms clutched in their hands.

Jon smiled, recognizing the look of blank shock on the freshers’ faces, and kept walking.

Ryan’s office was tucked away just after a juncture in the hallway. The door was half-ajar, and Jon pushed it open with his knock. Ryan looked up, surprised, from a fat book he was buried in. “Hi – what? Did I walk off with the sugar or something?” Jon had to laugh as Ryan scanned the desk.

“Nah,” Jon said easily as he came fully into the room and shut the door behind him. “Thought while I was over here, I’d stop by and say hi. Hi.”

“Hi,” Ryan parroted back with a slightly confused look on his face.

Jon slumped into the visitor’s chair without waiting for an invitation. Spencer may have mentioned a few hundred times that Ryan wasn’t good with pleasantries. “Did you know,” he said conversationally instead. “That your office used to be the old photocopying room, before they subdivided Zack’s office?”

Ryan nodded slowly. “They only changed the nameplate on the door last week,” he admitted with a little shrug.

“Got to love maintenance services,” Jon observed easily.

“I wish they hadn’t,” Ryan said bitterly. “Now everyone knows where to find me.”

Jon laughed out loud. “Aw, poor baby,” he cooed, then clamped his jaw shut. Spencer had told him so much, but Ryan still seemed so unreachable. He relaxed slightly when Ryan gave a little smile and closed his book. “Dare I ask how goes it?”

Ryan shrugged. “I’ll get there. It’s a whole different system, different expectations, and the students here are--” he paused, searching for the right word.

“Silent? Waiting to be spoon-fed? Annoying as all get-go?” 

Ryan raised one eyebrow. “You sound like you know of which you speak?”

This time it was Jon’s turn to shrug. “I did my undergrad in Columbia – photography and visual culture. I did a little TA-ing for a semester between graduating and coming here to start my Masters.”

Ryan blinked. “You’re in the Masters program?” He sounded honestly surprised, and a little curious. It was the first reaction beyond vague disapproval Jon had gotten from Ryan since they met.

Jon nodded. “I’m Victoria’s slave, hence the mission of mercy just then.” He nodded back down the corridor towards the conference room. “Running the coffee bar at the Club just pays the bills my scholarship doesn’t cover.”

Ryan was nodding his head. “Let me guess,” he said. “Too expensive in the States, so you came here?”

Jon leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and dropped his voice conspiratorially. “Well, I was going to go travel and work and save up to stay at Columbia, but then they offered me money to travel halfway round the world to study, and, well.” He threw open his arms as if to say ‘here I am.’

Ryan sat back and studied Jon intently. “Spencer never mentioned that,” he said quietly.

Jon gave an awkward smile. “Well, we first met when I was pestering him for books that Victoria thought I should have read yesterday.”

The focused expression on Ryan’s face sharpened for a split second into something else entirely, then it was gone. “Really,” he said flatly. That’s interesting.”

Jon got the message, loud and clear. He stood up, brushing his hands down the sides of his jeans. “Yep. Anyway, I better get back to work. See you later?”

“Oh,” Ryan said cryptically. “I’m sure you will. See you.”

~//~

_  
DATE: Wednesday, April 22  
TO: allstaff_announce  
FROM: Gerard Way  
SUBJECT: Feminism Conference THIS WEEK_

_Just a reminder that the conference starts with the keynote by our (new) guest of honour, noted feminist scholar and queer theorist Amanda Palmer. The keynote is Thursday, 12pm, in Emerson One, followed by afternoon workshops (flyer attached). You are all welcome to attend the keynote, but if you want to attend the workshops or the conference itself (Friday-Saturday), and you are not already registered, you need to speak to Frank before Thursday. There will also be a closing reception Saturday at 6pm, in Ellingway._

_Thanks also to everyone who has helped, directly or indirectly, to get this conference off the ground. It is much appreciated.  
-Gerard Way_

__  
“You know,” Frank’s voice came out of the gathering darkness. “I’m pretty sure the sculptor wanted their work admired, not sat on.

Gerard exhaled a thin plume of smoke. “I am honouring his work by engaging with it in a visceral and tactile manner.”

Greta giggled lightly as she toasted Gerard with her champagne glass. “Hooray for art history majors.”

Victoria chinked her glass against Greta’s. “I’ll drink to that.”

Frank snorted as he sat down beside her. “You’ll drink to anything. Here,” he added as he passed a glass over to Gerard. “Take your damn orange juice and stop disrupting the artists’ vision.”

“Oooh,” Greta laughed. “Watch out, Gee, you’ve created a monster.”

Victoria’s lighter flared in the darkness. “Frank was terrible long before this.”

Frank nudged her arm. “For that, I’m bumming a cigarette.”

Victoria held out her packet. “These things will stunt your growth, you know.”

“Wow,” Frank said. “I haven’t heard that one in, oh,” he made a show of looking at his bare wrist. “Two whole minutes.” He leaned in as Victoria flicked her lighter, and inhaled deeply. The cherry glowed brightly in the night. He leaned back and exhaled slowly. “Well, that’s it. All over except the book keeping.”

Greta and Victoria moaned loudly in perfect unison, then cracked up laughing at themselves. Frank frowned at the vague silhouette of Gerard, who stood silently by. Despite the darkness, he could see that Gerard was being a bit strange, even by Gerard standards. “Gee? You okay?”

Victoria nudged Frank with his elbow. “He’s just not sure what to do now he’s not being held together by stress and nervous energy.” She expertly lit a fresh cigarette off her old one and inhaled deeply. 

Gerard dropped his butt and ground it out under his heel. He sighed as he looked inside his packet. “Three left,” he said quietly.

Victoria snorted. “What, are you quitting – again?”

“I have to,” Gerard said simply. He took a deep breath. “Lindsey’s pregnant.”

Frank’s cigarette dropped from his fingers and extinguished itself on the dirt between his feet.

~//~ 

Ryan moved slowly down the hall, wincing as the edge of one of the hardcovers bit into his arm. He tried to wiggle it into a more comfortable position without dropping the entire stack, and the book at the top of the pile immediately began to slide dangerously to the left. Ryan watched helplessly as it teetered on the edge and—

“Whoops, hey, here.” There was a blur of motion. “Let me grab that for you.” Ryan blinked at the skinny, dark-haired boy holding his book, looking lost now that he had it. “Umm, I don’t think I can put it back without sending it all flying. Where are you headed?”

“Seminar room,” Ryan mumbled. “But you don’t—”

The boy cut him off with a laugh. “Hey, it’s cool, it’s on my way. I’m right next door in the postgrad office.” Humming to himself, the boy strolled off down the corridor, leaving Ryan cursing as he tried to catch up without tripping over his own feet or something equally embarrassing. “You must be Dr Ross,” the kid said blithely over his shoulder.

“Yeah, umm, yeah, that’s me.” He cast around in his memory for a name and came up blank. “I’m sorry, have we met?” Ryan stuttered.

“Ha, yeah, sorry, no. I’m Brendon,” Ryan blinked in recognition as Brendon steam-rolled on. “I’ve been out on fieldwork over the summer, and then some.” He stuck his hand out, blushing as Ryan helplessly tried to juggle his stack of books and papers. “Seminar room first, proper introductions later,” Brendon said with a self-depreciating smile. He strode out, leading all the way down the hall.

Brendon stood by as Ryan spilled his books and materials all over the front desk. Smoothing down his shirt, Ryan nodded and shook hands properly. “Nice to meet you. I’m Ryan Ross.”

Brendon nodded and stuck his hands in his jeans pockets. “Brendon Urie. I’m a PhD student here.”

Ryan fidgeted with his pen. “Greta mentioned you.” Thinking back, he realized that everyone had mentioned him. “You work with Patrick, right?”

Brendon beamed. “Greta is great! And yeah, I’m working with Patrick, which is why I’m never around like normal people.” He brayed a laugh, like it was some awesome joke.

Ryan shifted awkwardly on the spot, feeling distinctly out of his depth and not knowing exactly why. “Yeah,” he said lamely.

Brendon just grinned. “Hey, I’ll finish one day, right?” He glanced out the door as the first students wandered in. “Speaking of, I better get back to it. Slave driving waits for no man. Later.” With a jaunty wave, Brendon wandered out, high-fiving one of the students walking in as they passed.

Shaking his head, Ryan turned back to his notes and tried to compose himself for the lecture.

~//~  
 _  
DATE: Friday, May 1  
TO: campus_announce  
FROM: Chancellery   
SUBJECT: Construction Planning_

_All staff, please be aware that the northern lawn and Johnston Passage (Chancellery Building) will be closed off due to pending construction. Work will begin Monday, May 4th and 8.30am, and estimated duration of the works is five weeks._

__

Mikey studied the footpath and contemplated the best route for minimal mud splatter.

“Dude,” a voice yelled. “Can you fucking believe it?” Mikey didn’t look up as Cash jumped to a halt beside him, kicking up mud and dust as he landed. “I mean, look at this shit!”

Mikey ignored the pit where a lawn used to be in favour of checking his jeans to make sure Cash hadn’t got mud on them. Satisfied, he let Cash babble on as he pulled out his phone and checked his messages.

Beside him, Cash was making unhappy noises. “Dude, they’ve cut budgets for all Divisions, yet they have enough money to make themselves a fucking undercover car park. Well, fuck them dude, fuck them fucking sideways. Oh, hey, it’s Ian and Johnson and Cassidee! Guys! Over here! I know! Can you believe this shit?”

Mikey glanced at the pile of rubble covering the pathway as Cash’s friends came over and started talking angrily about the development. He sighed and typed out a reply to Lindsey’s latest message, letting words like “scandal” and “protest” and “budget” flow over him.

“Mikey!” Cash clicked his fingers between Mikey and his phone, and Mikey scowled at him. “You’re in too, right? I mean, damn the man and the garage for his swanky cars when the fucking labs are a disgrace and the postgrads are hotdesking.”

Mikey shrugged. “Whatever.” He had already figured out that somewhere between Cash’s ears and his brain, there was a filter that turned anything said to him into whatever he wanted to hear.

“Awesome, knew we could count on you! Oh, hey, have you met the guys. That’s Johnson and Marshall, that’s Cassidee, and— Sorry, Cass, who’s your friend.”

Mikey looked up and froze.

The woman smiled at him, like she got what a bunch of fools Cash and his friends were sounding like, and that she shared his pain. “I’m Alicia,” she said with a lightning quick smile. “Very nice to meet you.”

~//~

Brendon beamed as the door opened. “This is what you get when you say you’re too busy to go get the flu shot, so it’s self-inflicted and you only have yourself to blame, and before you slam the door I brought soup and drafts so please let me in,” he blurted out before taking a deep breath. “Please,” he added more normally.

Patrick blinked, bleary-eyed, clutching his robe around him. “Wha?” he asked, voice burred and hoarse.

Brendon rolled his eyes. “Soup. Reading material. Your mail. Move.” He ushered Patrick backwards into a lounge made stuffy by a roaring fire in the grate. “Cosy,” Brendon noted absently. “You, couch. Now.”

Patrick half-staggered across the floor, tripping over empty tissue boxes and discarded mugs, and dove into the rumpled pile of blankets and pillows that had built up on the couch. His head popped out from under the covers a moment later. “B’den,” he snuffled. “What are you doing here?”

Brendon was poking around in the kitchen that ran off the lounge. “I am on an errand of mercy, Patrick Stump,” he called back. “I am your own personal angel with a fabulous ass instead of wings.” He appeared around the doorframe, waving a jug. “Is this microwave safe? Good.” He disappeared again. 

Patrick heard his microwave beeping, then suddenly Brendon was standing beside his couch. “Dude,” Brendon breathed, his toe nudging one of the tissue boxes. “What are you, the snot monster?”

“Bren—” Patrick began warningly. 

“Patrick,” Brendon growled back in a surprisingly good mimicry of Patrick’s own shattered voice. “Here, lemon and honey, it’s good for your throat.”

Patrick forgot to be mad as he sipped the steaming beverage and watched Brendon kick away tissues and gather up the empty cups and bowls until he had cleared a space around the coffee table. In the kitchen, the microwave beeped, and he vanished for a moment to return with another steaming mug. “Chicken noodle. Greta made a batch, and ordered me to deliver it as your lunch.” He waited for a moment until Patrick had taken his first sip before dropping to the floor on the other side of the coffee table, legs folded beneath him.

Digging through his satchel, he produced a stack of printouts bound with an elastic band. “I brought less tasty presents too. This is the draft you wanted, but,” he waved the pile threateningly. “I don’t want you to even look at it until you can say my name without loosing a letter or choking on something disgusting, okay? And this is your mail.” Another elastic band-bound packet was dumped on the first. “Now, do you want to talk theory, or do you want to hear the latest gossip from the halls of higher education.”

Patrick gestured for the latter.

“Well, you know Spencer, the librarian? And Victoria’s MA, Jon Walker? The guy who runs the coffee bar at the club? Well, Ryland was telling me that he and Alex saw the two of them down at the film festival, making out in the back row. I know, must have been spectacular if those two dragged their attentions off each other long enough to notice.” 

Patrick tucked his blanket more tightly around his shoulders and let Brandon’s gossip roll over him in relaxing waves until he fell asleep. When he woke up, his dishes were draining in his sink, there was a Tupperware container of soup in his fridge, and he was feeling vaguely human again.


	3. Chapter 3

~//~

Greta looked up and smiled at the familiar face there. “Hello, stranger,” she teased with mock sternness. “Haven’t seen you lately. I believe you owe me a chapter, Mr Faller.”

Chris mooched over to the chair opposite her, but didn’t sit down. “Yeah, about that,” he said. “I’m…I’m dropping out of the program.”

Greta blinked. “Oh,” she said blankly. “Why? If I can ask,” she added hurriedly.

Chris shrugged. “It wasn’t any fun anymore,” he said bluntly. “Then this job came up, back home, and y’know.” He made a wry face. “Money and all. You understand?”

She nodded. “I understand,” she said with a sigh. “I can’t say I’m not disappointed, but I understand.” She glanced down at the paperwork on her desk without seeing it. “We’ll, you’re on scholarship, so there are forms to fill out, you can’t just disappear.”

The packet landed on her desk with a rustle of pages. “Done it.”

Greta sighed and looked Chris right in the eye. “You’re really not going to let me even try to talk you out of this, are you?”

He shook his head. “You asked me when we started if I wanted this. Well,” he shrugged again, looking even more uncomfortabe. “I don’t think I want it any more.”

Greta stared at the packet Chris had tossed on the desk, her name and his one below the other written in messy capital letters. “I guess that’s it, then. I’ll have to get Pete to sign this too, then we send it to the scholarships office. You might want to let Brian or Zack know, so they can reassign your desk and resources to the next candidate.”

Chris flinched at that. “Strip it back to the bone, huh? That was quick.”

Greta shrugged and stood up, resisting the childish urge to say ‘you started it.’ “Well,” she said instead. “We can at least give you a send off. Coffee?”

Chris shook his head. “Sorry, I need to get out to the airport.” He met Greta’s gaze for a moment then looked away.

“I understand,” she said softly. “Faster’s better.”

“Bye,” he said lamely. “And thanks.”

She sat alone in her office for several minutes, forcing herself to turn each page, noting the cursory answers to the necessary formalities of cancelling both scholarship and enrolment.

“Faster’s better,” she repeated to the empty room. The packet clutched in her hands, she walked down the corridor, slowing as she saw Chris leaving Brian’s office. She watched from a distance as he pushed through the firedoor to the stairwell and vanished.

Heavy feet carried her down, past Brian and Zack’s offices, down past Pete’s, to the last door in the corridor. Knocking lightly, she let herself in. “Chris just dropped out,” she said simply. “And I think it’s my fault, and I could really use some clarity right about now.”

~//~

Mikey slouched out of the exam hall, blinking in the bright wintery light as around him the rest of the class streamed out and disappeared into the flows of people crowding the wide pathway.

He let the currents push him to the edge, and, sheltering in the lee of the building, he dug through his bag and pulled out a crumpled pack of cigarettes. He had promised Gee his help in quitting, but after that exam, he needed nicotine.

He flicked his lighter twice, catching the cigarette in the flame and inhaling deeply as it caught. He slouched against the building, the crumbling concrete digging into his shoulders as he let the smoke out in a thin plume.

Fucking thought experiment questions, he thought to himself. Should be banned.

“Mikey? Mikey! There you are!”

Mikey sucked hard, swallowing down the smoke as Cash bounced up into his field of view.

“Wow, didn’t know you smoked too.” Mikey blinked as Cash grabbed his hand and brought Mikey’s cigarette over, lining it up so he could light up his own. Cash tipped his head back and puffed out a lop-sided smoke ring. “Okay,” he said in a no-nonsense tone. “We’re almost set for rousing the rabble tomorrow, but we need more posters. Cass and ‘Licia and that crew have taken over the Alliance rooms and are painting up a storm, and Marshall and Ian have set up a copyshop on the second floor of the library.” Cash patted his bulging bag. “And I am about to wallpaper every board on campus.” He took another drag off his cigarette. “It’s all hands on deck, what do you want to help with?”

Not ‘do you want to help,’ Mikey noted philosophically. Just ‘you are helping.’ He supposed he should be grateful Cash even gave him that much of a choice. “My brother is an artist, so I know a bit about painting. I’ll help Alicia. And Cassadee,” he added quickly.

Cash nodded, taking one last hurried drag before he ground out his cigarette under his boot heel. “Know where the Alliance rooms are? What am I saying, you know where they are. Tell them more is more, okay? Later.”

Cash ducked back into the flow of people and vanished. Mikey contemplated the last of his cigarette before he stubbed it out on the edge of a bin and walked more slowly across the courtyard to the student centre.

The Alliance room was a poky subdivision of an old office, tucked behind the bustle of the student newspaper. Mikey stood aside as someone pushed past, laden down with a box of papers, then picked his way carefully down a narrow corridor littered with dead filing cabinets and more boxes full of crap. The smell of paint and glue grew stronger as he rounded the corner and pushed past a half-opened door wallpapered with socialist posters and announcements of rallies and lectures from the last decade.

Inside, an old stereo was blaring out the Pixies. The jumble of second-hand desks and chairs had been pushed up against the walls, and Cassadee and Alicia were on their hands and knees on the floor, daubing paint in bright slashes across large placards.

Mikey leaned against the doorframe, tilting his head to get a better angle. Alicia turned her head to look at him over her shoulder. “Like what you see?”

Mikey quirked a tiny smile. “Very much so.”

He started off the doorframe as Cassadee sighed explosively. “Fuck! We’re out of black,” she declared to the room at large.

“Again?” Alicia asked, sitting up and pushing her hair off her face with paint-smeared fingers.

Cassadee was futzing over by one of the desks, and there was a jingle of keys as she turned around. “Again,” she confirmed. “But it’s no biggie, I’ll just go raid the art supply room.”

Alicia dug into her pocket, ignoring the way the paint smudged off her fingers onto the denim. She held up a five dollar note. “Get me a coffee on your way back?”

Cassadee snatched it out of her fingers. “Jawohl, Fräulein,” she said with a click of her heels. She pushed past Mikey with a little wink, and closed the door behind her.

Mikey tip-toed over drying signs and dropped gracelessly into the little gap Cassadee had made between the paint pots and the sign blanks. “Hey,” he said awkwardly.

Alicia smiled. “Hey yourself. How was your exam?”

He shrugged and poked at the end of the one of the brushes that was jammed into a jar. “Horrible. The usual. Whatever, it’s done.”

Alicia ran the brush down her poster one last time, then shoved the brush in the jar next to the one Mikey was absently toying with. “Okay,” she said, taking a deep breath. “I was thinking.” She paused and pushed her hair off her face again. “Tell me if I’m wrong, ok?”

Mikey looked her in the eye, confused.

“Oh fuck it,” she sighed as she reached over, grabbed Mikey carefully by the lapel of his jacket, reeled him in and kissed him.

~//~

Frank helped himself to a glass of something bubbly and weaved his way through the crowds towards the buffet table. Grabbing a selection of some vegetable sticks that still looked vaguely crunchy, he let the currents of the crowd push him around the room until he fetched up in one of the quieter, dimly lit corners of the gallery.

He eyed the large mural piece hanging under its spotlight. It dominated the space, slashes of red paint drawing the eye through the pastiche of found items that were strewn seemingly at random across the surface. The photographs and newspaper headlines and tiny cheap trinkets combined in such a way that he couldn’t focus on any single piece.

Someone drifted up to his elbow. Frank looked sideways and smiled. “I like it.”

Lindsey shrugged self-depreciatingly. “It’s kind of my mind at the moment.” She spun her finger in a circle through the air next to her right temple. “Hormones are making me crazy, and I can’t work with anything that gives off fumes. So I get more crazy, and more frustrated, until--” The finger slashed out in front of her. “You get this at three am.”

Frank _chinked_ the rim of his glass against her tumbler, the two notes cancelling each other out to leave only a dull _thud_ behind. “Congratulations, by the way. Excited?”

Lindsey shrugged. Together, they turned around to study the crowds in the gallery. “Kinda. Gerard and I take turns freaking out and being excited. I figure the day we’re on the same page is the day I’ll go into labour.”

Frank grinned impishly. “So freaking out it is, then?”

Lindsey blinked, then laughed loudly, drawing the attention of the nearest members of the crowd. “Probably.” She looked down into the tumbler, swishing the ice around the curve of the base. “Oh, fuck talking about my lovely little parasite, that’s all I seem to do these days. How have _you_ been, Frankie?”

Frank felt himself squirming and tried not to show it. “Busy, you know. No excuse not to write now.”

Lindsey laughed. “Yeah, how long have you been there? You know they think an MA should only take two years.”

Frank sniffed loftily. “Perfection takes time.”

Lindsey laid a hand on Frank’s shoulder. She smelt of turpentine and stale smoke and the sea, same as Gerard. “Honey,” she said, not unkindly. “They’re not looking for perfection.”

“I am,” Frank said in a small, stubborn voice.

Lindsey lifted her hand off his shoulder to gently chuck his chin with her fist. “I hope you stay on, after,” she said honestly. “Gerard is so taken with you, we both are.”

Frank blinked.

Lindsey’s smile made the corners of her eyes crinkle. “Aww, has our little Frankie been feeling left out.” She ruffled his hair, and Frank skipped back with giggly half-snort. The distance helped him regain his composure.

“Come on,” she said, following and pushing him back into the crowd. “Gerard won’t be here for another half hour, so you can buy me a drink and we can find you a little puppy playmate.”

“The gallery is paying for the food,” Frank shot back. “And I’m not sure whether I should be worried by the implied collar kink, or going to get my rabies shots.”

Lindsey laughed and half-hugged him with one arm. “See,” she whispered loudly in his ear. “This is why you need to stay on. I need a wingman to keep me from going insane at gallery openings.”

“You just want free baby-sitting.”

He felt Lindsey shrug. “That’s what Mikey is for.”

Frank gestured to the guy behind the catering table for two sodas. “You’d trust your kid to Mikeyway?”

She accepted her glass with a nod of thanks. “Darwinism in action,” she shot back deadpan. “Survival of the fittest.”

Frank rolled his eyes. “I might have to stay around, just to make sure this kid makes it to show-and-tell age. I think something from Gerard’s zombie collection would make a good first demonstration.”

Lindsey clapped awkwardly, juggling her glass so that some of the liquid spilled over her fingers. “For that, I’m making you a godfather.”

“Who’s being made a godfather?” Gerard asked over Frank’s shoulder. “Frank? Lins, please. He’s,” Gerard made a see-saw gesture with his hand. “Still somewhat Italian, and he’s from Jersey. That’s a dangerous combination.”

Frank caught Lins’ little nod and kept his face as expressionless as he could. “Do you have faith in my judgement,” he said in the best impression he could muster. “Do I have your loyalty?”

Gerard brushed past Frank to press a kiss to the corner of Lindsey’s mouth. “Should I be worried?” he asked mildly.

“Terrified,” Frank and Lindsey said as one, then burst into hysterical laughter.

Gerard watched them for a moment with an indulgent eye. “I don’t know about you two.” He looked up over Frank’s shoulder. “Oh, hey Jamia. My grad student and my wife are conspiring for the forces of evil. I think we need to team up and defeat them, for the greater good.”

Frank half-turned as someone behind him choked on a sarcastic laugh. “Sorry, Gerard,” she said. “The forces of good have all the PR, but the Dark Side has cookies.”

Lindsey smiled over the rim of her glass. “God, cookies. I’d love a real cookie.” She blinked. “Oh, Frank, have you met Jamia? She’s the new curator here for the gallery. By the way, Jamia,” she said as her grin turned wicked. “Nice collar. It suits you.”

Frank bit back a laugh as he nodded hello to the dark haired girl who was looking slightly confused. “Umm, thanks,” she murmured, her fingers drifting momentarily over the fine lace filigree wrapped around her throat. “Anyway, I came over because we have a benefactor who – I know,” she said, holding up her hand to forestall Lins’ groan of complaint. “But benefactors come with money to buy tasty tasty art and gallery space.”

“Is it Spector?” Gerard asked. “Yeah,” he said off Jamia’s surprised nod. “I know Spector. Come on, hon, I’ll introduce you. If he gets obnoxious, just mention how Caravaggio is overrated and watch him sputter.” Gerard took her arm and they disappeared into the crowd.

Frank smiled at Jamia, who seemed a little bewildered by their sudden disappearance. “Can I get you a drink?” he asked, turning on the charm. “If you’re running this show, I know you deserve one.”

She studied him for a moment, like she was memorizing his features. “Frank, wasn’t it?” Her smile was sudden and dazzling, and Frank couldn’t help but grin back. “I’d love a drink. Lead on!”

~//~

Ryan knocked nervously on the door, the rap of his knuckles muffled slightly by the thickness of the fliers and postcards that were plastered across the faux-wood surface.

“Entré!”

Ryan slipped inside, closing the door behind him. Gabe’s office was a riot of colour, from the posters adorning the walls to the pair of giant bookshelves loaded down with books, journals, curios and knickknacks. The man himself spun around from his computer to beam at Ryan. “Come in, sit down, I don’t bite anymore unless I get special written permission.”

Ryan edged into the seat, the brown manila folder clutched to his chest. Getting the report back was bad enough, but knowing that it had been cc-ed to both Pete _and_ Gabe was just mortifying.

Nothing like having your shame shared with your superiors, and the email from Gabe, in its friendly, chatty style – just drop by! – had somehow only added to the deep bite of humiliation that the dry numerical statements had left him with. He’d never had these problems when he was a TA, back in the States.

“So, Ryan,” Gabe said with a groovy little nod of his head. “Looks like you got bit with the local student curse. Hey, tell me, have you heard the joke about these kids?”

Ryan had come expecting to be reamed over the coals, not told a joke. Then again, he’d heard stories about Gabes’ sense of humour. “Uhh, I don’t think so,” he said cautiously.

Gabe beamed. “Okay, so it goes like this. When an English professor goes into an English class and says good morning, the kids say good morning back. When a German professor goes into a German class and says good morning, the German kids say ‘prove it!’ When we go into a class and say good morning, the damn kids write it down!” He burst into laughter.

Ryan bit his lip, uncertain what to do.

Gabe stopped laughing as suddenly as he’d started, and sighed. “What I’m saying, little Ryan Rossy, is that everyone who’s come here has had to climb a pretty steep learning curve dealing with the brats.” He steepled his fingers and looked over them to study Ryan. “So stop looking like I’m going to pull a firing squad out of my desk drawer. We save that for the major fuck ups. This doesn’t even register.”

Ryan nodded dutifully. “What about my, umm?” he bit his lip, searching for a delicate way to phrase it.

Gabe cut him off with a laugh and a wave of his hand. “Dude, if Pete tries to bring this up in your promotion and progression review, just ask him about his scores from his first year here.” Gabe winked. “It’s not blackmail if it works, okay? Now, lets talk about the open question responses, because that’s where the nifty shit is. Basically,” he pulled a page seemingly at random from a stack and consulted it. “It seems your students all agree you know your shit, but you’re boring as all fuck to listen to.”

Ryan felt his cheeks warm with embarrassment.

Gabe sat back, a wicked little grin on his face. “The boy blushes,” he cooed.” How sweet.” He laughed openly as Ryan glared at him. “That’s more like it, tiger! Listen, it’s easy. Make ‘em laugh, tell a story, show a video. Throw out a hook, then reel them into the theory. Don’t take it so seriously, they’re only going to remember one word in four anyway.” He nodded at Ryan’s little frown. “Yeah, I know, but hey, this is the MTV generation here.”

“Is that what you do?” Ryan asked, feeling a little disgusted at the implications of turning higher education into some kind of circus.

“Hell yes,” Gabe boomed. “Lecturing is like informed stand up comedy, except we go for an hour and technically we can’t get liquored up on stage.” He leaned in like he was sharing a secret. “Lecturing is performance art, but the knack is to make it look effortless. They can smell a tryhard like a piranha can smell blood.” He raised an eyebrow at Ryan’s expression. “Don’t believe me? Think back to your best lecturers, the ones that could fill an hour effortlessly. Think about what they did.” He nodded. “See what I mean?”

Ryan didn’t, but he had a feeling that if he told Gabe that, this meeting would never end. “Yeah.”

Gabe clapped his hands together. “Okay, remind me to teach you how to tell a baldface lie once we’ve played poker a few times,” he said cheerfully. “In the meantime, well, there’s not much we can do in-between semesters. Why don’t you get some notes prepared for next terms’ courses, and we can go over some presentation strategies. And talk to Brian about locking in your TA early – the good ones always go fast.” He picked up a pencil and tapped it against his teeth. “Patrick might not let him, this close to completion, but see if you can get Brendon. Yeah,” he said slowly, appraising the idea. “I think you and Brendon could make beautiful magic together.” He dropped the pencil with a clatter and clapped his hands. “There we go, a plan of action. Go on, shoo shoo,” he waved his hands dismissively. “Put it in motion.”

~//~

Patrick walked in without knocking and closed the door behind him. “Do you do any work, or do you just play internet poker all day?” he asked in lieu of greeting.

Pete beamed at Patrick. “Hey, my poker playing is keeping this department in the black.” He watched as Patrick sat down and began ruffling through stacks of paper. “So,” he drawled. “What part of my job am I not doing now?”

Patrick rolled his eyes. “We’re not going through the workload sheets that need to be with central administration by this Friday.”

“Oh good,” Pete said sarcastically. “I love not doing those.”

“I noticed,” Patrick snorted in reply. He dropped a thick folder onto the desk. Pete poked it gingerly with a pencil. “Where do you want to start?”

They worked through the spreadsheets methodically, until they had finally sorted out everything they needed. Patrick shuffled all his notes into a file and slid it across the desk. “Give that to Brian to type up. Don’t forget this time.”

Pete rolled his eyes but didn’t even try to defend himself. “Yes, Patrick, of course, Patrick. Is that all the admin?”

Patrick nodded, gathering up his own notes. “Yep.”

Pete sighed. “Sit down, Patrick. Sheesh, I know you booked me for two hours and by my count we still have ten minutes left on the clock.”

This time, it was Patrick who rolled his eyes, but he stopped packing away. “You make it sound like we’re in therapy,” he replied, sitting back.

“Couples therapy,” Pete shot back. “Maybe we need it, since you haven’t come by in weeks!”

Patrick fiddled with his pen, not meeting Pete’s eye. “I’ve been busy.”

Pete stared at him. “I know you’re a workaholic, Trick, but too busy to appreciate Ash’s delicious take-away skills? My baby boy is going to grow up not knowing the awesomeness of his godfather if you keep hiding from us!”

“I’m not!” Patrick retorted hotly. He took a deep, calming breath. “I’m not hiding,” he repeated with forced calm. “I’m just, I’m allowed to have my own life, you know.”

Pete beamed at him. “Sure you are, Pattycakes. Just as long as I’m in it, is all.”

Patrick groaned. “Maybe you _should_ be in therapy?”

Pete leaned across the table, making big cows’ eyes at Patrick. “I’d rather be with you, Patrick,” he cooed theatrically.

Patrick laughed. “I would report you for sexual harassment in the workplace, if I didn’t think that in a weird, perverted way that you’d enjoy it.”

Pete cackled as he flopped back in his chair. “But seriously,” he said as he wiped his eyes. “All work and no play make Trick a dull boy. And Pete a sad boy. Come on, pick a day I can hold you to for dinner. We all miss you.”

Patrick sighed and leaned back. “Fine,” he said at last. “Wednesday?”

“Wednesday is Trick day. Awesome!” Pete waved his finger sternly. “No flaking out on us.”

“No Pete,” Patrick said wearily. “Can I go now?”

~//~

Long arms wrapped themselves around Mikey’s mid-section. He bit his lip as a low voice growled in his ear. “You.”

Mikey rested his own hands gently over hers. “Me?”

Alicia kept her hand in Mikey’s as she spun him gently around and tugged him down a corridor. “Help me, Michael James Way, you’re my only hope.”

“Ten points for the quote, minus ten for not having your hair in coiled buns while saying it.”

“Nil all draw,” Alicia said with a shrug as she pushed through a heavy door. “Sucks to be me. Anyway, do you know Jac? She’s meant to be my producer, but she’s bailed on me again and I need help rotating discs.”

Mikey blinked, confused. “Producer?”

Alicia rolled her eyes. “For my radio show? ‘Pretty Good for a Girl’? Where I get a three hour slot once a week to educate people and their taste in music?”

Mikey stared at her. “How come,” he asked slowly. “You know my middle name yet I didn’t know you had a radio show?”

“Just one of my many feminine wiles,” Alicia shot back as she fluttered her eyelashes. “Come on, Mikeyway,” she pleaded. “I need someone who can be relied upon to pick good albums to do my running between the studio and the archive. It’s my first show for the new semester, I want to make it good. Please?”

Mikey threw up his free hand in surrender. “I know nothing about radio stations, you realize.”

Alicia let go of his hand long enough to dig out a fat set of keys. “We use an intra-studio chat program to do shit. I know you can type, and I’ll show you how to pull records, and if you fuck up I’ll just flip you off until you fix it.” She pushed open another door and pulled him into a tiny airlock of an anteroom. “Mikey, I’d like to introduce you to our archive.” The thin inner door swung back to reveal a long room packed to the rafters with cheap shelves, stacked with row after row of albums, CD and vinyl both. “Mikeyway, archive. Archive, Mikeyway. I’m sure you guys will make each other very happy.”

Mikey drifted down the nearest aisle, running his finger reverently down the edge of the shelf, studying the titles. Alicia followed. “Everything is categorized by artist, and that’s it. I need at least 120 minutes of music. I’ve got a theme in mind, protest songs, anything damning the man, y’know, to help keep this whole carpark protest thing going, but it’s a pretty loose theme, so if there’s something you’re desperate to hear, shove it on the playlist.” She glanced at her watch. “Shit, where’s the time go? Gather up the first thirty minutes or so, then.” She grabbed his arm and pulled him bodily out of the aisle and pointed at a double-thick glass window. “Through there is the booth. Come and find me.” She disappeared off through the soundproofed door.

Mikey turned back to the stacks, rolled his neck to limber up, and set to work.

~//~

“I think we need a bigger coffee machine.” Zack poured out the last dregs into a cup and dolefully refilled the machine.

“That will only encourage them,” Brian shot back and he rifled through his ring of keys and unlocked the pantry door. Aware that all eyes were on him, he took his time finding a plate and scattering the cookies in an artful array.

“Brian,” Greta purred as she came over and took the plate off him. “You,” she said as she poked him lightly on the chest. “Are a total sugar tease!” With a twirl of her skirts, she turned and almost skipped away.

Brian let her go with a laugh as he crushed the packaging and dropped it in the bin. “Oh, Ryan, hey,” he said as he grabbed Ryan’s arm. “Just to let you know, I asked Brendon if he’s up for tutoring for you, and he’s just off to ask Patrick now.” He waved his hand towards the door. “I should have an answer for you soon, so you can plan and do whatever.”

Ryan nodded, clutching his mug and trying not to spill hot coffee over his hand. “Thanks,” he murmured, barely audible over the growing din of the room as postgrads and staff poured in, lured by the promise of coffee and food and conversation and a break from the never-ending work. He glanced around the room, looking for a seat, someone to talk to, somewhere to fit in.

He couldn’t see Brendon, or Patrick, but Brian had waved vaguely towards the doors, so maybe Brendon was still around.

Ryan drifted out into the hall, stepping aside to let Alex and Ryland through. He saw Patrick immediately. His back was turned, and over his shoulder he could see Brendon talking intently.

Patrick shrugged and said something inaudible, and Brendon beamed at him. “Yes!” Brendon exclaimed loudly. “Thank you, Patrick, you won’t regret this!”

Patrick’s reply had Brendon flinging his arms around Patrick’s shoulders, hugging him close.

Ryan blinked and ignored the twisting in his stomach as Patrick gently patted Brendon’s shoulder before untangling himself. Brendon had a limited understanding of the concept of personal space, Ryan told himself, and Brendon and Patrick had been working together for a while. It wasn’t anything. It wasn’t normal to hug your supervisor either, but it really wasn’t anything. He shook his head and turned away, wondering what he was trying to convince himself out of and why.

Ryan walked back into the noise of the staff room. Greta looked over and waved to him, gesturing for him to come over. She patted the seat next to hers invitingly. “Sit, sit.” She studied his face. “Come and tell Aunty Greta all your problems.”

Ryan sat. “No problems,” he lied. “I, I was just wondering,” he asked slowly, formulating his question with care. Greta was his closest friend here, the one who explained all the mysteries of the department to him. “Brendon and Patrick seem pretty tight?” he began and then trailed off, searching for the right words. “Have they,” he stuttered out. “Have they been together long? Working together, I mean?”

Greta’s face went impossibly blank. Every expression just shut down. “Professor Stump has an excellent working relationship with all his students. Brendon is his only PhD at the moment, and they’ve been working closely in the lead up to Brendon’s submission date.”

It wasn’t an answer, it was a press statement, blankly opaque. But before Ryan could gather himself up to question it further, Greta turned and beamed at someone across the room. The transition was so quick it was dizzying. “Hey, Bob Morris! Why haven’t I got an outline from you yet?” And she was gone.

Ryan studied his cup to avoid looking at anyone else, and tried to ignore the questions that were piling up in his mind. Patrick and Brendon? But Patrick was a luminary in his field.

And Brendon was a pretty young thing, an up-and-comer, a treacherous little voice in his head noted. And everyone here respected Patrick, he was one of them, stuck here on the other side of the world.

Ryan blinked. Patrick _was_ a world leader. So why was he down here when he could quite possibly have his pick of any tenure position in North America?

“Ryan!” His head snapped back as Brendon dropped into Greta’s vacated seat. “Good news!” he said excitedly. “Trick said I can be your TA.” He flung his arms wide dramatically, very nearly whacking Frank in the process. “So I am all yours to do with as you wish. As well.” His hands dropped back into his lap as he tilted his head to one side. “I mean, Patrick gets first dibs on me, but after that, I am all yours, man. Oooh, did someone get cookies out of Brian? Awesome.”

Ryan dredged up a weak smile and sipped his coffee in silence.

~//~

__  
DATE: Monday, July 13  
TO: allstaff_announce  
FROM: Brian Schechter  
SUBJECT: Semester Two 

_Just a reminder that all semester two outlines need to be into Zack by this Thursday if you want them ready for next week. The printery has promised all course packs will be ready on time (assuming you submitted them when I asked for them). How good their promises are is something I won’t speculate on._

_There are still some students seeking late course advising. Victoria Asher has been volunteered to handle all inquiries, and will be in her office from 2-4pm this week. Please direct all advising inquires to her._

_Good luck._

_Brian  
King of the Paper Jungle_

__

“Good morning children!” Gabe boomed as he strode across the floor to the podium at the front of the lecture theatre. “And welcome to Narrative and Structure, otherwise known as You're Not Hemmingway so Have a Fucking Point.”

Half the class stared in shock, whilst the other half tittered nervously with their hands over their mouths. Gabe grinned up the tiers at the students and continued. “Let me introduce you to the people who can give you extensions – Ryland Blackington and Alex Suarez. Ryland is the tall one, Alex is the bitchy one.”

Alex’s “Hey!” echoed off the ceiling.

Gabe just bulldozed on. He had given the introductory spiel dozens of times, he could do it in his sleep. It was just one of those things he had to get through to get to the fun stuff.

“Today we’re going to go over the lecture schedule, briefly outline the assessments, and discuss how the tutorials with Ryland and Alex are going to function.” High in the theatre, a digital beeping rang out.

Ryland extended his index finger and cocked it like a gun going off.

Gabe just glared. “But before we do that, class rule number one. No cellphones in my class. Not even on silent. Turn those fuckers off before you walk through my door. Got it?” He looked around the room. “Audience participation time, kiddies. I said ‘got it?’”

This time a bedraggled murmur answered him. One or two people in the front row dug into their bags, and further up the rows there were a few beeps as people shut their phones down.

Gabe settled back down behind the podium. “Good. Where was I?”

“Overview,” Alex said helpfully from where he had perched himself by the door.

“Right! This course is broken into three modules—”

Ryland flashed Alex a toothy grin as, somewhere up the left hand aisle, a cellphone started to ring. The ringtone was vaguely recognizable as a Britney Spears tune. Alex mimed gagging.

Gabe left the lecturn, still talking. “The first module,” he continued, raising his voice over the sound of the ringtone and the frantic scrabblings of the girl trying to dig it out of her bag. “Will introduce you to the various conventions and structures narratives can take, in both long and short form narratives.” He drew level with the girl just as she yanked out her phone and cancelled the call.

Alex frowned. He preferred it when Gabe got there first and answered the phone. Sometimes he spoke Spanish. Alex had looked up some of the words. They were not nice Spanish words, but they were useful Spanish words. Gabe always found ways to continue the education of his students like that.

Up in the tiers, Gabe had gently plucked the now silent phone out of the girls’ hands. She stared, wide-eyed and frozen by indecision. Gabe began sauntering back down the steps to the podium floor. “One of the key things covered in this module is point of view, and how different points of view work within the narrative structure.”

Alex had been Gabe’s tutor for long enough now. He knew his duty. With a flourish and a bow, he pushed open the lecture theatre doors.

Gabe threw underarm, no doubt mindful of Pete’s weary comment not to break any more expensive electronics that didn’t belong to him. The cell skittered across the hallway floor and wedged itself between two piles of the campus newspaper.

Alex closed the door.

“Hopefully,” Gabe continued. “By the end of this module you will be conversant in perspective, form, and structure, and will understand that when I say turn your fucking cell phone off, I mean it. The second module—”

Alex settled back into his seat and let the rest of the introduction wash over him.

~//~

Spencer checked his phone again time, but there was still no reply to his last message. He extended the invitation every time, and every time no answer. It looked like tonight was going to be a repeat performance. He sighed as he stomped his feet, trying to encourage circulation. Ryan, he thought, had cautiously accepted Jon – Jon’s friends would just have to be another baby step.

“Hey you.” Jon magically appeared behind him, his arms looping around the outside of Spencer’s thick coat.

Spencer turned in the loop of his arms and demanded a kiss. “Hey. Come on, let’s get inside, it’s freezing out here.”

Jon squeezed Spencer’s hand as he led the way past a group of girls shivering in a huddle as they puffed on their cigarettes, through a non-descript door covered in peeling paint, and down a narrow flight of steps. Outside, the noise had been a steady _doof-doof-doof_ like the heartbeat of a giant, but inside the noise was a wall of sound beating against them.

Spencer was sure he could feel his rib-cage rattling.

Jon never let go as he weaved expertly through the press of bodies to another door in the back corner of the club.

The smaller room was packed, but the sound of the DJ on the main floor was somewhat muted. Jon glanced back and smiled at Spencer, then tugged him forward. If anything, the crowd in here was even more claustrophobic, but Spencer just let Jon push them a path clear to the small bar set in the very far corner of the room.

“JONNY WALKER!” Somebody shouted above the noise. Jon grinned and lifted his free hand in greeting.

“Tom,” he said loudly in greeting as they approached. “And I bring with me a Spencer!”

Tom clapped his arm around Jon’s shoulders and toasted Spencer with his beer. “Awesome! Come on, come on, we’re doing shots.”

‘We’ turned out to be a group of about half a dozen. Tom rattled through the introductions, shouting above the noise. “You know Sean, and that’s Al, Max, and hey, you know Ryan.”

Spencer turned quickly, an automatic reflex at the name then tried to cover up his reaction with a weak smile. “Hi, Luciani” he mouthed, not even attempting to make himself heard over the din.

Tom flicked Spencer’s hair with the hand he had snaked over Jon’s shoulders, and waved a bottle at him. Spencer nodded. Shots sounded really good right about now.

Tom handed him a shot, and he and Jon chinked the tiny glasses together in a toast. As one, they tossed them back, and Spencer winced slightly at the burn as it slid down his throat. He abandoned the shotglass on the table next to the rows of empties Tom and his friends had racked up, and accepted the bottle of beer Sean handed him. Conversation was impossible, so he just nodded and nursed his beer, moving slightly to the beat from the dance floor.

Jon tugged on his wrist, reeling him in. He planted a soft kiss on Spencer’s cheek. Spencer blushed slightly as Tom wolfwhistled loud enough to be heard above the noise. Spencer felt Jon’s smile against his skin. “Turn around,” Jon said right against Spencer’s ear.

Spencer turned around and relaxed. He grinned, and raised his bottle in greeting.

With a nervous look, Ryan weaved through the pack of people hanging around the bar and joined them. Spencer broke free from Jon to meet him. He gave Ryan a one-armed hug, then turned to the group. “Everyone,” he yelled. “This is Ryan, my best friend. The one I’ve been telling you about.”

~//~

Ryan swallowed down the taste of bile and scanned his notes, trying to see if he’d missed anything. “Any questions?” he asked lamely.

The class took that as a sign to start packing away, and Ryan didn’t bother to stop them. His head was pounding. ‘One or two drinks with Jon’ had turned into something of, what was for him, an unprecedented alcoholic marathon. He had a vague memory of going for kebabs in the High Street, then it was all a blur until his alarm had jolted him awake and groaning at bugfuck o’clock.

Ten am was too early for a lecture.

The students streamed past him out the door, the mass migration leaving the room empty inside of a minute. From his place in the front row, Brendon smirked at him. “Big night?” he asked, the picture of innocence.

Ryan stared at his scattered piles of paper and wondered briefly if he could just leave them there. “I was shanghaied by shots that went for the throat.”

Brendon’s laugh made Ryan’s head ring. “So not self-inflicted at _all_ , huh?” He patted Ryan’s shoulder. “Come on,” he said in more sympathetic tones. “You can buy me a coffee and tell me what you want me to do with this lot. Because, and tell me to shut up if I’m wrong, I’ve had some ideas about how to liven up that second module.”

Brendon talked as they walked, arms waving expansively through the air. By the time they had made it across campus to the staff club, Ryan was in shock. “Brendon,” he asked seriously as he opened the doors to the staff lounge. “How did you find time to think up all that when your thesis is almost due?”

Brendon shrugged, smiling and waving to someone over on the couches. “Oh, it just seemed obvious,” he replied casually. “Outside perspective and all. Hey!” he added, wheeling around. “That reminds me. I have a huge favour to ask.”

Jon wasn’t on duty today. He was probably still asleep in Spencer’s bed. Ryan made a wry face at the thought and nodded to the woman behind the counter. “Long black and – Brendon?”

“Soy latte, thanks Christy,” Brendon told her with a nod. “Anyway,” he continued like he had never been interrupted. “My favour, can I ask it? Water?” he added as he poured himself a glass.

Ryan took the glass and led the way over to a corner table. “Do you know everyone on campus? And just ask, you idiot.”

Brendon grinned as he sprawled over the chair and glanced around the room. “I’ve been here a while,” he said with a shrug as if that explained everything. “And my favour is a big one. Would you please read my thesis draft?” He batted his eyelashes. “Pretty please?”

Ryan nodded his thanks as the woman – Christy, apparently – delivered their coffees. “So you really have a draft already?”

Brendon nodded, looking a little nervous. “Yeah, I think I might. And Patrick says the more eyes on it, the better, but I know you’re really busy, but I think you’d be really good at giving concrit, and I need to get the final proof together asap, but—”

“Brendon,” Ryan said, cutting him off with a wave of his spoon. “I’d be happy to read it. Email it over as soon as you can, and I’ll get right on it.”

Brendon flopped back, relief pouring off him. “Really? Awesome, thanks man, I really, really appreciate it. Patrick has been riding my ass on every last detail, and I swear I can’t see the words on the page any more.”

Ryan nodded. “I remember that feeling. Just make sure you haven’t misspelled your title.” He snapped his mouth shut a second too late, and ducked his head to stare down into his coffee.

Brendon laughed loudly, turning heads at nearby tables. “You didn’t?” Ryan nodded, not daring to look up. “You did! Awesome! I love hearing this stuff, makes me feel like less of an idiot.” He slurped at his coffee. “I try to get Patrick to tell me his fuck-ups, but he won’t share. But he and Bob went to graduate school together, did you know that? Anyway, Bob will tell you all Patrick’s secrets for a cookie or two.”

Ryan sipped at his coffee, feeling the bitterness slip down his throat into the acid burn of his stomach. He’d spent the better part of a decade training himself to see edges of puzzles, put pieces together. Brendon and Patrick too frequently kept coming together to form a picture that Ryan wasn’t sure he was comfortable with.

Teachers dating students was just a no-go area. Ryan felt the knot in his stomach tighten in ways that had nothing to do with his hangover.

“Dude,” Brendon asked, his voice dropping in volume. “You okay? Drink plenty of water, that’s good for a hangover. Here, let me get you a refill.” Brendon was gone and back before Ryan could protest. “Here, drink up, and let’s sort out how we’re going to whip this class into shape.”

It was easier just to focus on work. Ryan pulled out his notes and concentrated on that.

~//~

“Herr Mikeyway, your army awaits!” One of the Alexes saluted sloppily and darted away.

Mikey turned to Alicia. “How did this happen again?” he asked plaintively.

She laughed and waved a cardboard tube through the air with a thoughtful expression. “You were too slack to meet us on time, and we all know you play Risk or whatever.” She clapped her hands. “You were the perfect volunteer.”

Mikey poked his tongue out at her. He’d seen her character sheet, she could talk.

Alicia laughed delightedly. “See, general material right there.” She tucked the tube into her belt and gave him an awkward one-armed hug. Her cardboard armour rustled and crinkled with every movement. “Relax. It’s just a playfight between geeks wielding cardboard weapons, and humanities has had its ass handed to it in the Battle of the Divisions every year since founding. You cannot do any worse than your predecessors.”

Mikey pushed his glasses back up his nose. “You suck at pep talks,” he told her fondly.

She beamed. “I know. Now, come on, I have a present for you.” She took his hand and led him through the throngs of humanities students who had come out for the divisional event of the year. Taken as a whole, they were a pathetic bunch. Mikey saw more than one person wearing layers of toilet paper as their armour.

“Is it an excuse not to be here?” he asked as he trailed after her.

Alicia just tugged him over to where Cassadee and Hayley were sitting smugly on top of some boxes.

“Maybe a tank?” he continued as he stumbled to a halt.

Hayley winked. “Close, General.” Together, they leapt off the boxes. “Tada!”

Mikey blinked. “What am I looking at?”

“Everyone’s in cardboard armour, Mikey.” Alicia explained patiently as she reached into the box and took out a fully loaded supersoaker. “We’ll either soak their armour off them, or give them frostbite and send them home.”

Cassadee’s smile was wicked. “And even if we lose, we might still give them all the flu, so it’s win win.”

“That’s,” Mikey said slowly. “Awful and nasty and wicked and quite possibly against the rules.” He grinned. “And I think I might love you for it.”

Alicia blushed, but pecked a kiss to his cheek. “Get these out to our artillery, ladies,” she ordered. As Hayley and Cass headed out, Alicia smiled and cocked her hip. “I was thinking,” she purred. “About that strategy we used to raid the caravan last month?”

It took Mikey a second to realize what she was referring to. “You want to use a World of Warcraft battle strategy in our cardboard war?” he said slowly.

“Got a better idea?”

Mikey lit up with a smile. “You are the best power behind the throne _ever._ ” A warm feeling blossomed inside him at her gleeful competence.

Alicia blew on her knuckles and polished them on her cardboard breastplate, then strolled off to give orders for the start of the battle. Mikey watched her disappear into the crowd. Cassadee appeared by his side and nudged him in the ribs. “You better win, Mikeyway,” she told him with a faux glare. “The Alexes have already composed a victory song in your honour.”

Mikey rolled his eyes for the look of things and went to claim a water pistol.

~//~

Ryan stepped out of Zack’s office, flattening himself against the wall as Brendon raced past. “Brendon?” he called after him. Intrigued, he re-entered Zack’s domain to find Brendon leaning against Zack’s desk, all but on his knees and pleading.

“Zack, please please please tell me you can fix this?”

Zack took hold of Brendon’s shoulders. “Kid, _breathe_. That’s good. Just sit here and let me go take a look.”

Brendon was almost vibrating with nerves. “But what if—”

Zack cut him off before another ramble could get started. “Then I’ll get it on a thumb drive and print it out myself. Relax.”

“What’s wrong?” Ryan asked the room at large.

Zack nodded at him and slipped out the door. Brendon watched him go pathetically. He looked literally wrung out. “I totally miscalculated!” he wailed. “I actually need to get the examiners copies into Central today, and the bindery is really busy and said they could only guarantee it would get done today if I got it in by midday!”

Ryan glanced at his watch. Half past eleven. “Cutting it fine, aren’t you?”

Brendon looked near tears. “Our printer has _died_ , Ryan. It printed twenty pages of gibberish before I realized, then died. I need four copies in half an hour!”

Zack came back. “It’s fucked,” he said candidly. “Cheap recycled cartridges, I told Brian, but no, what do I know?”

Ryan thought Brendon was actually going to start sobbing. “Zack! Half an hour!”

“Got your thumbdrive? Go on, bring it up and I’ll run it out on the copier for you. Go on, scoot!”

They watched him race out the door. “Zack,” Ryan said slowly. “Are you laughing at him?”

Zack grinned wickedly. “Once this is all over, he will too. Character-building, this is.”

“What is?” Ryan and Zack looked up as Patrick entered the room.

“Brendon’s printer died.”

Patrick looked surprised. “He told me he had it all printed and out to the bindery this morning!”

“I was going to, I swear I was,” Brendon babbled as he ran back in. He glanced at Ryan. “But it needed one more proof-read, my spelling sucks.”

Patrick frowned. “Cutting it fine, aren’t you?”

Zack made a ‘gimme’ gesture and pried the small drive out of Brendon’s fingers. “I’ll run it over, Patrick,” Brendon said earnest, hand raised in a boy-scout salute. “I swear!”

Patrick rolled his eyes and disappeared into the copier room next door. “Don’t start any big runs,” Zack called after him. “Or else Brendon will be a sad little panda.”

Patrick came back out. “Was just getting my mail.” He looked at Brendon’s hangdog expression and sighed, smiling a little as he shook his head. “What are we going to do with you, B?” He squeezed Brendon’s shoulder as he passed. “Come see me when you have _actually_ submitted. First round’s on me. You guys are welcome, too.”

“We’ll be there,” Zack said, typing one handed as he gave Patrick a big thumbs-up.

Ryan clutched his papers to his chest. “Congrats,” he told Brendon softly. “In advance, and all.”

Brendon smiled faintly at him and went to hover over Zack’s shoulder. Ryan left them to it.

~//~

Victoria knocked lightly on the door, pushing it slightly opened at the mumbled invitation. “Gee?”

Gerard looked up blankly. “Have I forgotten a meeting?”

Victoria managed a wan smile and fanned herself with an official looking envelope. “Nope. I just need hand-holding and someone who can take the blame if it’s bad news.” She shut the door behind her and dropped into the guest chair. The envelope landed on the table between them. “It’s the report from the promotions committee,” she told him. “Are they meant to be that thin?”

Gerard rolled a pencil between his fingers. “One page either way, yes or no. The packs are returned in a separate envelope.” The pause extended like taffy. “Well, are you going to open it or what?”

Victoria took a deep breath and snatched up the envelope. She ripped off the tab. “If it’s bad news,” she said fiercely, fingers wrinkling the paper of the folded letter. “I am allowed to hit you for encouraging the insanity, okay?”

Gerard flipped her off. “My advice is always golden,” he told her loftily. “Come on, open it!”

Steeling herself for the worst, Victoria unfolded the letter and skimmed over the paragraphs. She puffed out her breath and read it again, willing the words to make sense.

“Well?” Gerard asked, leaning over the desk on his forearms. She folded the letter up neatly and slotted it back into the mangled envelope. “VickyT, talk to me.”

She looked up, and bit her lip to try and control her smile. “That’s Professor Asher to you now, thank you very much.”

Gerard laughed and high-fived her, catching her hand in his. “Way to go! This calls for a celebration. Come on, let’s go round up the usual suspects and take a long lunch.”

Victoria let herself be towed into the corridor, the envelope clutched in her other hand.

“Patrick!” Gerard yelled as he bore down on corridor. “You bastard, I know you’re on the ProCom, why didn’t you tell her she made Prof?”

Patrick looked up in surprise, his eyes darting between the two. “I had to recuse myself, we can’t hear applications from people we know. You got it, didn’t you?” He beamed at her. “I knew you would, you’ve earned it!” As Patrick came over to congratulate her, it suddenly felt as if every door along the corridor was flung open.

“What’s happening? Victoria got a promotion? Over the bar? No, to Professor? Awesome! Are we celebrating?” The questions all tumbled together in a growing storm of noise and energy that carried Victoria out of the offices and over to the elevators.

The doors dinged as they opened. Brendon, clutching an empty bag, stared wide-eyed at the mass of people waiting. “Hey guys,” he said weakly. “What’s up?”

Patrick grabbed his arm as the entire crowd stopped to watch. “You have really honestly done it this time, right?”

In response, Brendon almost shyly handed over a slip of paper. Patrick scanned it, then turned to the group. “Ladies and gentlemen, we have submission, I repeat, we have submission!”

Gabe laughed. “Party at the staff club and Pete’s buying!”

This idea was met with a roar of general approval as everyone piled onto the elevator. Victoria found herself squished up the back with Brendon. She smiled at him, and he tentatively smiled back. “I’m not graduated yet,” he told her, barely audible over the noise in the tiny space.

“Celebrate now, worry later,” she told him. “Works for me. Besides, you’re a shoo-in. The rest is just formality.”

Ignoring Gerard’s smug, knowing little grin, she took Brendon by the hand and led the way over to the staff club.

~//~

 


	4. Chapter 4

~//~

Ryan mentally cursed the projector until it flicked over to the next slide. “Okay, finally, I just want to remind you all of a few important details regarding the major essay. You should all know this, but listen up anyway, because if any of you mess up on these points, I am going to be majorly cranky and even Brendon’s niceness will not be able to save you from the wrath of my red pen.”

There were a few scattered snickers, a few more grins. Ryan shrugged philosophically. At least they were beginning to engage with the material. That, as Gabe would probably tell him, was a very good place to start. Actually, Gabe would probably sing it. Ryan shook his head to clear the mental image, and began walking through his ‘how-to-write-a-critical-essay’ cheat sheet.

In the front row, Brendon bounced a pen off his knee over and over. He’d barely been keeping a lid on his nervous energy ever since his thesis had been sent off for examination. Ryan had been too busy packing up his life to come here to be that nervous while he waited for news, but he could commiserate with Brendon if he weren’t in the front row, being incredibly distracting.

Ryan turned and resolutely focused on the other side of the theatre for a minute or two, well aware that half the class was not very surreptitiously reaching for their bags anyway.

He knew now not to take it too personally. “Okay, these are due by 4pm, and you all know Zack’s a stickler for clearing the boxes on the dot, so don’t be late!”

Ryan didn’t even bother with formally closing out the lecture any more. It’s not like they would have heard him anyway over the sounds of bags being repacked, a hundred little conversations (Ryan had a sneaking suspicion that this generation found it physically painful to be silent and attentive for 45 minutes. He also suspected that such thoughts qualified him for premature old-man status).

Instead, he just began packing his own notes away, turning off the projector and clearing the computer ready for the next lecturer. Brendon wandered over and perched himself on the edge of the lecturer’s desk. “Ten bucks says we’ll have enough essays hitting enough points on that list to run our own game of Bad Essay Bingo.”

Ryan snorted a laugh. “No bet. Yes?”

The young woman edging closer to the desk blinked nervously, as if she was surprised to be the sudden centre of their attentions. “Umm, Dr Ross, I was wondering if I might have an extension?”

Out of the corner of his eye, Ryan saw Brendon roll his eyes. “The criteria for extensions are fully laid out in the course pack.” The last of his class were trooping noisily out the door, and beyond Ryan could make out the next class waiting to come in. “If you have appropriate documentation, medical certificates or whatever, you need to see Zack at the office to submit a request form.”

The girls’ bottom lip began to quiver. “But sir. I don’t have…please, sir?”

Beyond her, Brendon had raised one eyebrow, his hand clamped to his mouth. Ryan shot him a quick glare, daring him to laugh. Brendon raised the other eyebrow and looked meaningfully at the girl. Ryan sighed and perched himself on the edge of the desk, angling his body so he could talk to the girl without having Brendon being distracting in his peripheral vision. “I’m sorry, but the policy clearly states the terms.”

She dropped to her knees. Ryan blinked. Behind him, he heard Brendon quietly gasp. She ignored him and clasped both her hands around Ryan’s knee. Ryan stared in shock some more. “Please, please Dr Ross. I just need one more day. Please!”

“Okay?” Ryan mumbled.

She beamed and bounced back up to her feet. “Thank you!” Before Ryan could say anything more, she was running out of the room.

Brendon started laughing as the next class began filing in. “Dude, you’re a fucking pushover. Now they’re all gonna go on their knees for you.”

Ryan shook his head. “What just happened?” he asked weakly.

“Rosa just owned your ass is what,” Brendon crowed. “Man, your face!” Ryan scowled and flipped him off before gathering up his stuff and striding out of the room. He wasn’t quite sure how he felt about what just happened.

Brendon caught up to him only a few paces down the corridor. “Come on, Ryan,” he asked loudly as he stopped outside the door to the postgrad office. “What would you do if I got on my knees for you?”

Ryan blushed and kept walking. Behind him, he heard Frank and Brendon babbling at each other. Ryan walked a little faster as the pair started laughing like hyenas.

His teaching review better be fucking _epic_ from this class or he was going to be majorly pissed off.

~//~

Brendon sat on the hard chair outside the door, his knee jiggling arrhythmically under the binder laid across his lap. No-one warned him that waiting to do the oral defence felt an awful lot like waiting for a firing squad. He glanced sideways at Patrick, and scowled.

“Stop laughing at me!”

Patrick grinned and tugged at his hat brim. “Yessir!”

Brendon groaned and rolled his eyes as he buried his face in his hands. “They hate it all and they’ll hate me and I really will have to go get a job flipping burgers for the rest of my life. No wait, not even burgers. I’d have to work the drive-through or something because of this fucking half a decade gap in my CV.” He closed his eyes. “Would you like fries with that?” he repeated in seven different ways in rapid succession.

Patrick hummed neutrally.

Brendon looked up sideways at him through his fingers. “Aren’t you meant to be supportive and holding my hand and telling me it’s going to be okay?”

Patrick smiled. “I prefer to be vicious and vindictive. It gets shit done.”

Brendon groaned louder. “Oh god, I’m going to _die_ and you’re going to just laugh at me!”

“Why wait?” Patrick asked calmly. “I’m laughing now. On the inside.”

Brendon was saved from committing justifiable homicide by the sudden appearance of Bob over Patrick’s shoulder.

“We’re ready for you,” he said. “Come on in and let me do the introductions.”

Brendon followed Bob into the room, swallowing nervously at the sight of the single chair set up facing the panel. He sat down and tried not to slouch as Patrick took the seat to his left.

“Right,” Bob said briskly. “Welcome, everyone. Thank you, Mr Urie, for joining us. Just to reassure you,” he continued gravely, but with a glint in his eye. “This is not a firing squad. This is not meant to be torture.” Brendon couldn’t be sure, but from his left came a sound suspiciously like a muffled laugh. “This is just a final procedure to ensure you have produced a thesis that represents the best of your ability. I will be acting as chair for this meeting, since your head of department is also on your committee.” He gestured smoothly to Pete, who sat grinning like a Cheshire Cat between him and Patrick. “And acting as your external examiner, is Dr Travis McCoy. Thank you, Dr McCoy for agreeing to assist in this matter.”

With every carefully formalized phrase, Brendon felt his guts twist and tighten. He managed a jerky nod of recognition towards Dr McCoy before turning his attention back to Bob. Or did he have to call him Professor Bryar in here? Brendon stifled a nervous little giggle and clutched his pencil to keep his hands from shaking. Of all the things that could go wrong today, he was going to let himself get tripped up over a point of fucking _protocol_?

“Brendon?” Bob was asking, not unkindly. Brendon managed a frazzled nod. “If you’re ready, Dr McCoy will start the discussion.”

Brendon’s palms were sweaty, but he nodded again anyway, listening closely as McCoy started on his preliminary remarks. As he spoke, Brendon struggled to focus on each word. He clenched his fists nervously around his pencil and tried not to cry as his mind went completely and utterly blank.

“So, it got me thinking,” McCoy said as he glanced at the notes in front of him. “Why did you allow Althusser to dominate over Laclau in your critical reading of that section of the literature?”

 

Brendon responded on automatic, barely hearing his own words. McCoy nodded approvingly. “Yes,” he said. “I can see where you were going with this.” He grinned, suddenly, and tapped the copy of the thesis in front of him. “You need to make it clearer in here, though.”

Brendon nodded tightly and turned in his seat as Pete picked up the flow of the interrogation. He tried to sit up and look intelligent as Pete and McCoy traded turns firing questions at him, and sometimes even at each other. By the time Bob called an end to defence, his shoulders were aching with tension. “Mr Urie,” Bob said gravely. “If you and Professor Stump would just wait outside for a moment, to give the panel a chance to confer?”

Brendon found himself on the other side of the door. “I died, didn’t I?” Brendon said hoarsely, not looking around.

Patrick patted his arm and steered him over to the waiting area. He disappeared and returned a moment later with a paper cup full of water. “Brendon,” he said, voice bursting with pride. “You did _great_.”

Brendon shook his head and leaned forward, elbows on knees. He stared into the water and watched the tiny ripples cross each other in destructive patterns. Patrick sat silently in the seat next to his as they settled in for the wait.

“Patrick, Brendon,” Bob’s voice called out an unmeasured length of time later. “We’re ready again.”

Brendon dragged his feet across the carpet and dropped back into his seat. Bob glanced around the room once, then down at his notes. “Mr Urie, I’d like to thank you for being here today.” Brendon stared back blankly, steeling himself for the inevitable. “And as I am sure you are aware, today’s panel identified a number of issues. But as a group, we feel that the only changes required to the thesis are some cosmetic adjustments in phrasing and presentation before final binding and library submission.”

Brendon blinked.

Bob glanced to his right, and Brendon followed his gaze. McCoy beamed at him. “So let me be the first to say congratulations, Dr Urie.”

Brendon blindly reached out and shook his hand. “For real?”

“Nah,” Pete said laconically. “We’re just playing, it’s fast food hell for you!”

Patrick leaned over and hit him on the arm, hard.

“Ow, I was kidding!” Pete protested. He stood up and leaned forward, hand outstretched. “It really is Dr Urie now.” His smile was warm. “Congrats, B.”

Brendon all but swayed on his feet with relief. He opened eyes he hadn’t realized he’d closed as Bob patted him on the shoulder. “Come on,” he said. “It’s time for lunch – Doctor.”

~//~

Pete walked into the staffroom last, preceded by Brian who was clutching a stack of papers to his chest. Pete glanced around the room, at the familiar faces of his friends and colleagues, and frowned.

“Okay,” he said, clapping his hands together to get their attention above the general din. “Come on, lots to do and no patience for meetings.” He sat down and resolutely did not look at the empty seat by his side.

He noticed the others looking at it though, and snatched up the agenda to forestall questions. “Okay, first up, committee reports. Greta, I hear we’ve secured William Beckett to come down and act as our external exam moderator again this year?”

Slowly, they worked through the agenda, ticking off action items and doing the humdrum administrivia of the department. But Pete could not ignore that imbalance in the flow of conversation, the voice missing.

“Right,” he said, folding his hands over the stack of paper in front of him. “That’s all the agenda items. Anything else anyone wants to add?”

There was a long pause. “Where’s Patrick,” Greta asked finally, voicing the question in everyone’s eyes.

Pete took a deep breath. “He’s taken a personal day. Actually, that’s what I wanted to tell you all, before you heard it on the grapevine. Off-record.” He fidgeted with the corner of a sheet of paper, folding and refolding it as he spoke. “The central administration has received an _anonymous_ allegation,” he said, voice heavy with disdain for a brief moment. “Regarding Patrick’s professional conduct.”

A murmur passed around the table. “And what does that mean, exactly?” Gabe asked.

The corner of the page tore off in Pete’s fingers. “Basically, it has been alleged that Brendon’s thesis was ghost-written by Patrick as payment for sexual favours.”

There was a moment of stunned silence, then a roar of outrage. Pete let it continue for a several seconds before waving his hand for silence. “Alleged,” he repeated heavily. “Rest assured, it’s not going to take us long to disprove this.” He let his voice trail off, and knew they were all hearing the unspoken addendum. If they didn’t disprove it quickly and fully, Patrick’s professional record would be tainted forevermore.

“Wait,” Gerard said, massaging the bridge of his nose. “They honestly think that Patrick and Brendon are, what?”

“Fucking?” Gabe said helpfully.

Gerard waved his hand at Gabe to acknowledge his contribution. “And that Brendon’s thesis isn’t his own work? Seriously?”

Pete nodded. “Yeah. The allegation refers to—” he made a face and dug out the printout of the email. “Inappropriate relations whilst in a position of supervisory authority.” He dropped the page. “Without proof, that’s just an allegation. But the thing about Brendon’s thesis is the biggie. Until it is _disproven_ , Brendon’s completion is on hold. He won’t be allowed to graduate.”

This roar was even bigger than the first. “But Brendon defended,” Bob pointed out. “There’s no way he could have faked that!”

“That’s what the internal review is intended to uncover,” he said curtly. “To that end, first thing tomorrow, a representative from the postgraduate office will be over to assess the situation. They’ll probably want to talk to you all, sound you out.” He grinned. “I’m sure, like me, you will tell the bastard that we’ve all seen Brendon working like a machine—” He made a face as Brian cut him off with a jerky wave of his hand. “I mean, you’ll answer his questions honestly.”

Ryan blinked. “I read his drafts,” he offered quietly. “Talked to him about some sections. The final version incorporated those remarks. Unless he taped our conversations and gave them to Patrick, that was his own work he submitted.”

Ray held up his hand. “Ditto.”

Pete beamed. “Excellent, that’s exactly what the assessor will be looking for. Did you keep copies?”

Ray hung his head. “Sorry, I just scribbled on them and handed them back.”

Ryan paused, mouth open. “I did,” he realized out loud. “Electronic copies, with comments. They’re probably still in my outbox.” Everyone was staring at him, but for the first time he didn’t feel uncomfortable by their attention. He met Pete’s gaze and nodded, trying to make it clear he was ready to help.

“Find them and forward them to me and Brian. Every bit helps.” Pete’s expression was fierce. Anything else? Okay, great, try to be available tomorrow, and I’ll keep you all in the loop on this.”

~//~

Ryan sat, staring at his monitor without seeing a thing. He had been aware all morning of people walking up the corridor like they were heading up death row, then rushing back again twenty minutes later to hide in their offices. Gerard was wearing a tie, and even Gabe was looking subdued.

Ryan glanced up as Victoria passed by, head down, all but steamrolling the way back to her office. He opened his mouth to call after her, but she was gone before he could catch her attention. He watched as Ray walked by in the other direction to take her place, and sighed. He’d be next.

Ryan folded his arms on the desk and dropped his head down, giving up even the pretence of work. His mind was whirling with memories of events and encounters and thoughts and suppositions.

Rumour and hearsay, nothing more. He wished this was all over already.

He flinched at a light _tap-tap-tap_ at the door. But it wasn’t Ray, calling him up to the firing line. Brendon’s pale, wan face was peeking around the doorframe. “Brendon,” Ryan started, standing up and sitting down again almost as quickly. “Are you even meant to be here?”

Brendon slipped inside, closing the door and tiptoeing over like he was walking on eggshells. “Maybe, I don’t know.” He drifted over to the desk and sat down in the guest chair. This close, Ryan could tell he had been crying, but his eyes were dry now. “Nobody is telling me anything, just that my completion is halted. Everything’s halted, and I had to turn over all my notes, and Patrick has been at administration all day, and I promised I wouldn’t tell but it still feels like it was my fault, like I should have done something more and I—” he sucked in a deep breath, cutting himself off midstream. “This sucks,” he finished with heavy finality.

Ryan played with his pen thoughtfully, watching Brendon sit like he was folding in on himself. “Bren, I want to ask you something. I think, I know, but,” he scrubbed his face with his hands. “But I need to hear you say it, okay. Just us, here and now, tell me: is there anything to what they’re saying?”

Brendon looked Ryan right in the eye. “It’s my own work. Patrick and I are friends. That’s it. No sex, no kissing.” He flashed a vague ghost of a smile. “Okay, I admit, a little hugging, but for Patrick that was totally under duress.” He shrugged. “I’m the cuddle slut.” The smile dropped off his face, and he held up his hand like a scout’s salute. “But that’s it. Honest.”

Ryan sat back in his chair. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

Ryan nodded. “Okay.”

They both turned at the knock on the door. “Ross, you’re up.” Ray looked totally unsurprised to find Brendon there. “Hey B. Hot chocolate, my treat?”

Ryan smoothed down his shirt as he followed Brendon out the door. “See you soon,” he said, turned, and walked confidently up to the meeting room, already knowing what he had to say.

Fifteen minutes later, he let himself out. Glancing at the list in Brian’s handwriting pinned to the door, he walked back down the corridor, past the lobby, and knocked lightly on Greta’s door. “Greta, you’re up.”

Ryan took a startled step back as Pete yanked the door open. “Hey Ryan. Yeah, we’ll be right up.” Ryan took another step back, watching as Greta came through the door, clutching a thick manila folder to her chest. She’d made an effort, but Ryan could still see clearly the tear stains on her cheeks. But she was smiling.

“Greta?” he asked, concerned.

She winked at him and walked away towards the meeting room with her head held high. Pete patted Ryan’s shoulder and followed her. Ryan brought up the rear of their odd little convoy as far as his own office. He unlocked the door but didn’t go in, watching as Greta and Pete both entered the meeting room.

Curiouser and curiouser.

Ryan looked into his own office and sighed loudly. Staying only long enough to grab his coat, he headed back to the lobby. Maybe he could find Ray and Brendon and hide with them until this was all over.

~//~

Ray left Brendon and Ryan deep in a discussion of Vegas’ litany of teenage haunts and headed back to his office. With Patrick out – he felt a tiny clench of worry – he’d volunteered to cover Patrick’s classes for the duration.

That meant a lot of prep time he didn’t really have. Rolling his shoulders to work out the knots already forming, Ray frowned and wandered over to the staff room. The noise pouring out the door grew louder as he approached.

The room was packed, a dozen conversations creating a blanket of sound. Ray spotted Bob and waved his hand until he got Bob’s attention. “What’s happening?”

Bob shrugged and shuffled over a bit to make room for Ray. “Sit down,” he said. “We’re waiting.”

Ray sat, frowning. “Waiting for what?”

Bob glanced sideways at him, looking at him like he was being an idiot. Frank leaned forward. “Dude, where have you been all morning?”

Ray glanced nervously between them. “Umm, distracting Brendon for the most part. Kid is freaking out.”

Zack appeared suddenly over Frank’s shoulder. “Wait, B is on campus?” He sighed and rubbed his face as Ray nodded. “Fuck, been looking for him everywhere.”

Frank folded his legs under himself until he was sitting in a rough lotus position. “He’s turned his phone off, the idiot.”

“He’s with Ryan,” Ray offered meekly, feeling through his confusion like somehow something was his fault. “I left them over at the staff club.”

Zack frowned. “I don’t think I have Ryan’s cell number in my phone,” he said as he flipped it open and began scrolling through his contacts. “It will be on file,” he said, heading for the door.

“I think Greta knows it. Hey, where is Greta?” Ray looked around, mentally counting heads.

The other two men shared a knowing look. “Dude,” Frank said solicitously, leaning forward to pat his knee and almost toppling onto the floor in the process. “You’ve been missing out on all the action.”

Ray leaned forward, mimicking Frank’s posture. “So catch me up.”

Frank looked over his shoulder and smiled. “I think the bossman is about to do that for us all.”

Ray twisted on the spot to watch as Pete sailed into the room, beaming his Cheshire grin.

“What’s happening?” Victoria called out from the back of the room. “What’s the verdict?”

Pete laced his fingers together and bounced on the spot, heel to toe and back again. “Where’s Brendon?” he asked.

Frank had his phone out. “He had it turned – hey, it’s ringing. B, man? Finally! Get your ass over here right now. Staffroom, yeah. ASAP.” He smirked into the mouthpiece. “And bring whatshisname with you?” He held his phone from his ear as Brendon yelled something down the line, and cut the connection. “On his way!” he reported with a jaunty little salute.

Ray looked back and forth between them. “Would somebody please tell me what’s going on?”

Pete winked at him. “Patience, Dr Toro. All will soon be revealed. I just need to talk to Brendon first.” He looked over at Frank. “Send him to my office as soon as he gets here.”

Ray watched him go then looked back to Bob and Frank. “You guys are enjoying my confusion, aren’t you?”

Bob nodded sagely. “This is what you get for not taking me to coffee as well.”

Ray gaped at him as Frank laughed like a hyena. “Oh, oh,” Frank gasped, waving at the door. “Brendon, Pete wants you in his office right away.”

Ray caught a glimpse of Brendon disappearing back out the door. He shuffled along as Ryan came in and sat next to him. “What’s going on?” Ryan asked weakly.

Ray felt a sudden kinship. “I have no idea, since no-one,” he said meaningfully, looking around. “Will tell me anything.”

Frank mimed zipping his lips. Ray flipped him off. Beside him, Ryan fidgeted with the cuff on his shirt, muscles tense with nerves. Around them, the conversations in the room died out one by one, leaving only an awkward silence.

Ryan almost jerked out of his seat at the loud yell from down the corridor. Everyone looked at each other, some heading for the door. “Was that Brendon?” someone asked.

Brendon barrelled into the room and span around in a little dance, passing himself from person to person. “They’ve dropped the allegations! No more investigation!” He span to a stop in front of Ryan, beaming. “I can _graduate_!”

Ryan didn’t step back as Brendon enveloped him in a hug. “That’s awesome. What happened?”

Brendon shrugged and almost blushed. “We had enough evidence to prove it wasn’t ghostwritten. They tossed the charges – I’m gonna be allowed to walk at graduation after all! Isn’t that awesome?”

“Yeah. Any news about Patrick,” Bob asked as he passed behind Brendon, resting his hand briefly on Brendon’s shoulder.

“Those charges have also been dropped.” Pete lounged in the doorframe, smiling with deep satisfaction.

“Just like that?” Bob said suspiciously.

Pete nodded. “Just like that. They did some investigation on the source of the allegations, and, well. Let’s just say it was a less than reliable witness.” The smile broadened. “And the few specifics they provided were all disproven by the testimony of Patrick’s better half.”

The entire room stopped for a moment. “What, but?” somebody whispered before they fell silent.

Gabe sauntered towards the door. “Say,” he said dramatically, smiling a predator’s grin. “Where is Greta, anyway?”

Pete rolled his eyes. “Dr Salpeter and Professor Stump are both on leave til Monday,” he said with mock severity. He looked around the room. “I’m sure you will extend them _every_ courtesy when they return?” It was less a question than a command.

Gabe bowed. “Of course. Now, if you’ll excuse me?” Pete moved aside as Gabe left, whistling what Ray suddenly identified as the theme to _The Love Boat_.

Ryan turned to Ray. “Greta and Patrick?” he asked weakly.

Ray sat back down heavily. “I am obviously out of the gossip loop.” He looked up and frowned. “You knew, didn’t you?”

Brendon shrugged and dropped down on another chair. “I was sworn to secrecy. They didn’t want a fuss.” He looked around at the knots of people all talking in quiet, urgent voices and winced. “Whoops?”

~//~

Greta tucked the folds of her skirt neatly around her legs before clipping her seat belt into place. She didn’t look up as Patrick got into the drivers seat and turned over the ignition. The drove in silence, and Greta tilted her face to the sunlight filtering through the first leaves of spring hanging from the trees.

“It’s going to be okay,” Patrick said suddenly, breaking the silence.

Greta closed her eyes. The patterns of light and dark raced over her eyelids. “Easy for you to say, Mr-Full-Professor.”

Patrick made a strangled little noise, and Greta’s eyes flew open. She covered her hand with her mouth, masking her smile as Patrick glanced sideways at her moment. He started to laugh.

Greta laughed too, a release for the pressure that had been building inside of her ever since she had woken up. “Sorry,” she said. “It’s just,” she trailed off with another sigh.

“I know.” Patrick took his hand off the gear stick and rested it on her knee for a moment. “And I know that from now on, everything you do is going to be assessed in terms of you and me. And I know that it probably is going to be harder on you than me, in the long run, present disaster aside.” He pulled up at the red light and turned in his seat to look her in the eye. “But I meant what I said last night.”

She smiled back, cupping his cheek with her hand. “So did I. It’s worth it.”

Behind them, a horn honked. Patrick jolted back, made a wry face, and jerked them into gear. “So, we just have to make it through this day.”

Greta groaned. “Ten bucks says Gabe has organized something mortifying.”

“No bet.”

They subsided back into an easier silence this time. “You going to be okay,” Patrick asked finally as they turned into the driveway to the parking garage.

Greta nodded. “Ask me again at the end of today.” She sounded tired.

Patrick cut the engine. “Hey,” he said, catching up her hand. “Think of it this way. If anyone gives you grief, you can set your boyfriend on them now.”

Greta laughed delightedly. “Sic ‘em, boy!” She leaned over and pressed a kiss to his lips. “And now, I need to run. I promised Clara over in Languages I’d pick up a book from her first thing. See you later?”

“Lunch,” he called after her. “My treat!”

“You’re on,” she called back down the row of parked cars. She waved goodbye and disappeared into the elevator. Patrick retrieved his bag and coat and took the stairs.

Pete joined him the next floor up, a synchronicity born of long habit. “Hey, Trick,” he drawled, falling into step with Patrick. Their elbows jostled against each other as they took the next flight of stairs side by side and pushed through the doors into the pale spring sunshine. “You okay?” Pete asked quietly.

Patrick wrinkled his nose at the sunshine and adjusted the brim of his hat. “Getting there.”

Pete nudged him with his elbow. “That’s not an answer.” He waited for a moment, studying Patrick’s profile. “I gotta know, man, why the secrecy? You know it’s not a big deal, right?”

Patrick rolled his eyes. “Oh sure,” he said sarcastically. “Two colleagues who are in what is, essentially, a line manager situation, starting up a, a,” he stuttered, looking for the least embarrassing phrasing. “Romantic relationship. Despite your attempts to subvert the department structure, I am still, in essence, her boss.” He shifted his satchel angrily. “Sure, that wouldn’t blow up in our faces,” he said with sudden bitterness. “And when things go boom, whose head would roll first? The full Professor with an international profile, or the new lecturer who’s only had her doctorate a couple of years?” He tapped his chin mockingly. “Gee, let me think.” He dropped his hand huffily.

Pete shook his head and held open the door to the building for both of them. “Patrick, Patrick, Patrick, you’re forgetting one thing. I am _both_ your bosses. I could have made all that go away.”

Patrick shook his head and stomped across the main lobby. “Officially, sure. Unofficially? Every success, every achievement she makes, would be seen in the light of her and me. Every credit dismissed, every promotion or advancement discarded as mere favouritism.” His fingers tightened around the strap of his bag. “She deserves better than that,” he ground out with fierce indignation.

Pete paused, then hit him in the arm, hard.

“Ow, you fucker!” Patrick spat. “What the fuck was that for?”

“I’d hit you in the face, but you’re too pretty for a black eye,” Pete replied easily, nudging the elevator call button with his hip. “Consider that your wakeup call.” He waved a finger in Patrick’s face as they stepped into the elevator. Patrick resisted the urge to snap at it, but only just. “One, you both deserve to be happy, so remember that. Two, you’re not the only academic couple on this campus. Academics are an incestuous lot, or have you forgotten where I met Ash?” The bell dinged for their level. “And three, we tease because we care. If anyone gives you shit for real, they’re not worth the effort. All the people that matter, us here, and those powers above us, they’ll look at her work as _her_ work.” He smiled. “And we’d go into bat for you if we ever needed to, or has the last week taught you nothing?” The smile amped up several notches. “We’ll tease the crap out of you all the way, but you’re both ours. We’re keeping you.”

Patrick felt his cheeks starting to warm. “Thanks. I mean,” he stopped with a little bob of his head. “For last week and everything.”

“Worth it.” Pete grabbed him and hugged him. “Hey, it’s true! Brendon has worn down your hug defences. Awesome.”

Patrick squirmed out of Pete’s arms and marched up the corridor. “I’m going to work now,” he called back down the corridor.

“Glad one of us is,” Pete yelled after him.

~//~

__  
DATE: Monday, November 24  
TO: allstaff_announce  
FROM: Brian Schechter  
SUBJECT: Graduation 

_The main graduation ceremony for the Division will be held December 12. Please find attached a list of our BA graduates attending the ceremony. We are also pleased to report that Masters’ students Jon Walker and Nathan Navarro, and PhD Brendon Urie will also be crossing the stage at this ceremony (yes, definitely!)._

_If you will be attending, please RSVP to me by the 28th. If you require extra tickets in audience seating, please let me know then – tickets are issued on a first-come basis. All staff are required to adhere to regalia guidelines._

_Congratulations to all on another successful teaching year._

_Brian  
Looking forward to the summer._

__

 

Ryan studied himself in the mirror and frowned. Spencer appeared over his shoulder and adjusted the fall of the drape. “You look good,” he said with a straight face.

“I look like an extra in Harry Potter,” Ryan shot back with a grimace. “Also, _twelve_.”

Spencer shrugged and reached over to snag the black cap off the dresser. “That too,” he said easily. Ryan scowled at him in the mirror. Spencer was dressed in slacks, a collared shirt and tie. He looked utterly normal, the bastard.

Spencer caught his eye in the mirror and laughed, like he knew exactly what Ryan was thinking. “Once we get there, you’ll be fine.” He nodded somberly at Ryan as he added. “With your own kind, in your natural habitat.” He broke out laughing as he ducked Ryan’s swipe. “Come on, get your special little hat and get your ass into gear. Jon will be picking us up any minute now.”

Ryan grumbled, but followed Spencer down the stairs and outside. Jon’s car pulled up in a cloud of smoke and the arrhythmic stutter of its engine. Ryan watched nervously as Jon flung the door open, half expecting it to fall off. “Hi guys,” he called cheerfully.

Spencer stepped forward, _tsking_ even as he pressed a light kiss to Jon’s mouth. “You’ve got your robes all wrinkled,” he complained.

Jon and Ryan’s eyes met in a moment of pure understanding. “Spence,” he said gently. “These things wrinkle when you’re standing at attention in an empty room. Come on, climb in. We don’t want to be late. Parking’s a bitch at these things.”

Ryan tried to gather the long folds of his regalia as best he could as Jon folded down the seat far enough for Ryan to squirm his way into the backseat of Jon’s tiny hatchback. He nodded his thanks to Tom, who half-hauled him the last of the way in.

“All grace,” Ryan mumbled self-consciously, squirming in the tiny space so he wasn’t crushing anything too obvious. Spencer already looked like he was half considering bringing the iron with them.

“Don’t worry,” Tom told him. “There is no graceful way to get into Jonny’s backseat.” Tom paused and grinned. “Unless you’re Spencer, that is.”

In response, Spencer adjusted the front passenger seat, pushing it back, hard, as far as it would go.

Tom pulled his knees to his chest, yanking his feet clear. “Ow, ow, okay,” he cried loudly. “I take it back.” He waited until Spencer had pulled his seat back before he leaned over and whispered loudly to Ryan. “We’ll save the innuendo for later.”

Jon wisely turned the stereo up at that point. Ryan stared out the window the entire short trip to campus, and tried to ignore the inexplicable nervousness that was building.

As predicted, the place was already swarming with people in their best clothes or regalia, all drifting vaguely towards the open-air amphitheatre that dominated the centre of campus. They passed groups taking pictures, friends embracing, and parents fussing over robes and hoods and caps. Ryan glanced at Spencer with a smile, and got a fond eyeroll in response.

“Hey,” Jon said suddenly. “There’s Brendon!”

Ryan searched the crowds, smiling when he spotted Brendon talking to a small knot of vaguely familiar faces. Without looking back, Ryan broke off from their group and headed over to him.

Brendon spotted him while he was still a little way away. He broke into a happy smile, nodding apologies to the student he was speaking with as he moved to meet Ryan halfway.

“Hi,” Ryan said as they approached each other. “So, how does it feel to be a graduand?”

Brendon rolled his eyes. “Trust you to use the word correctly in a sentence. Why can’t you say ‘graduates’ like everyone else?”

Ryan tugged on his voluminous sleeves as he made a show of looking around the assembling crowds. “They’re not graduates yet.”

“Almost!” Brendon protested.

Ryan glanced at Brendon’s face then looked away. “But not quite,” he repeated firmly.

Brendon bounced briefly on the spot. “Well. Guess who is _almost_ graduated?”

“Doctor Urie,” Ryan agreed with a nod. “All nice and official.”

“And sealed with a bow.” Brendon tugged nervously at the overlong sleeves of his robe. “Okay, I’m going to hug you now, is that okay?”

Ryan rolled his eyes. “If you must,” he said in his most put-upon voice. “Why so formal all of a sudden?” he added as he was hit by a sudden sinking suspicion.

Brendon wrapped his arms around Ryan’s shoulders, pulling him in. “Haven’t you heard,” he whispered into Ryan’s ear. “Hugs can be dangerous to your professional health.” This close, Ryan could hear the deeper notes below the affected playfulness of his tone.

Ryan snorted crossly, planting his hands on Brendon’s chest and pushing just hard enough so he could look Brendon in the eye. “Don’t let them get to you like that. We won. We’re right, they’re wrong, end of story. Got it?”

“Got it,” Brendon parroted back, carefully avoiding returning Ryan’s gaze.

“Brendon,” Ryan said warningly.

“Yeah. Hey, so!” Brendon said brightly. Ryan rolled his eyes at the obvious attempt at changing the subject, but let it go. “Guess what is also official today.” He smiled more naturally at Ryan’s quizzical look. “I got a job.”

Ryan blinked. “Already? Wow, congratulations.” He swallowed hard and braced himself. “So, where are you headed?”

“CBD.”

For a moment, Ryan struggled to think of which university had those initials. He frowned as the pieces reassembled themselves. “CBD as in the city?”

Brendon nodded. “Academic hiring is frozen everywhere, you know that.” He shrugged, burying his hands nervously in the pouches inside his sleeves. Ryan watched them disappear. “So I got myself a sweet, sweet position in research and consulting.” The falsified bravado was back, and he stuck his chin out defiantly as Ryan cast around for a suitable response.

“Consulting,” he finally spluttered. “You? Really?”

Brendon’s face froze, and he took half a step back. “It’s a good position, and the work looks really interesting,” he said defensively. Hurt was written across his face.

“No, no,” Ryan protested quickly, holding up his hands. “It’s…I’m happy for you, really. I’m just surprised.” Brendon stopped backing away, and Ryan sighed. “You’re so good in the classroom, that’s all. I was sure you were set on a college job.”

Brendon shrugged. “Beggars can’t be choosers,” he said with an easy pragmatism that Ryan had trouble reconciling with the rest of Brendon. “Besides,” he added with a wicked glint in his eye. “If you’re on the pay-scale I think you’re on, I’m about to start out-earning you.” He laughed at Ryan’s face. “And it means I can stay here.” He scuffed his shoes on the pavement. “I hate relocating,” he added quietly.

Impulsively, Ryan reached out and squeezed Brendon’s hand. “I’m glad you’re staying.”

“Me too.” He squeezed back. “Actually,” he said slowly, drawing out the syllables. “I was wondering. Do you like Japanese food?” He licked his lips and looked at Ryan. “I was thinking,” he said, his words speeding up. “Maybe a celebratory dinner at Yoshiko’s after this?”

Ryan nodded. “Okay,” he agreed absently. His fingers had entwined with Brendon’s without his permission. “Who else is going?”

Brendon took a deep, steadying breath. “Well, I was thinking,” he licked his lips, his eyes darting up to meet Ryan’s. “Just the two of us?”

It took a moment for it to sink in. “Oh? Oh!”

Brendon blushed and looked down again at their joined hands. “I mean, just, if you want to, it’s—”

Ryan took Brendon’s other hand and tugged them both gently to get his attention. “Brendon?” He took a deep, steadying breath. “I’d love to have dinner.”

Brendon’s answering smile was like the sun coming out. “Really? Awesome, really, really great.”

Ryan grinned. “You’re babbling.”

“And you need to go get ready for procession.” He pointed to a marquee set up at the back of the amphitheatre. “In there.”

Ryan squeezed his hand one last time. “And you need to get to your seat. See you on stage.”

Brendon smiled happily again and disappeared into the flow of people congregating in the seating area.

Spencer appeared at his shoulder. “How’s things?” he asked knowingly.

Ryan smiled. “Looking up.”

END


End file.
